She sank back in her chair, pale and prostrate. After a while--

_She_. "And then I gave you good advice about how to dream true, and we
got to my old house, and I tried to make you read the letters on the
portico, and you read them wrong, and I laughed."

_I_. "Yes; I read 'Tete Noire.' Wasn't it idiotic?"

_She_. "And then I touched you again and you read 'Parvis Notre Dame.'"

_I_. "Yes! and you touched me _again_, and I read 'Parva sed
Apta'--small but fit."

_She_. "Is _that_ what it means? Why, when you were a boy, you told me
_sed apta_ was all one word, and was the Latin for 'Pavilion.' I
believed it ever since, and thought 'Parva sed Apta' meant _petit
pavillon_!"

_I_. "I blush for my bad Latin! After this you gave me good advice
again, about not touching anything or picking flowers. I never have. And
then you went away into the park--the light went out of my life,
sleeping or waking. I have never been able to dream of you since. I
don't suppose I shall ever meet you again after to-day!"

After this we were silent for a long time, though I hummed and hawed now
and then, and tried to speak. I was sick with the conflict of my
feelings. At length she said--

"Dear Mr. Ibbetson, this is all so extraordinary that I must go away