character of an author, artist or actor are blithely charged to genius,
and we are content to let it go at that for fear that other people may
think we don't know any better. As for myself, I may be foolish and
inconsequential, but heaven will bear witness that I am not mean enough
to call myself a genius.

So we will call it stupidity that put me where I might be rained upon
at any moment, or permanently interrupted by a bolt of lightning.
(There were low mutterings of thunder behind the hills, and faint
flashes as if a monstrous giant had paused to light his pipe on the
evil, wind-swept peaks of the Caucasus mountains.)

I was scribbling away in serene contempt for the physical world, when
there came to my ears a sound that gave me a greater shock than any
streak of lightning could have produced and yet left sufficient life
in me to appreciate the sensation of being electrified.

A woman's voice, speaking to me out of the darkness and from some point
quite near at hand! Indeed, I could have sworn it was almost at my
elbow; she might have been peering over my shoulder to read my thoughts.

"I beg your pardon, but would you mind doing me a slight favour?"

Those were the words, uttered in a clear, sweet, perfectly confident
voice, as of one who never asked for favours, but exacted them.

I looked about me, blinking, utterly bewildered. No one was to be seen.
She laughed. Without really meaning to do so, I also laughed,--nervously,
of course.