That clasp of the hands in the dream--how infinitely more it had
conveyed of one to the other than even that sad farewell clasp at Cray!

In my poor outer life I waited in vain for a letter; in vain I haunted
the parks and streets--the street where she lived--in the hope of seeing
her once more. The house was shut; she was away--in America, as I
afterwards learned--with her husband and child.

At night, in the familiar scenes I had learned so well to conjure up, I
explored every nook and corner with the same yearning desire to find a
trace of her. I was hardly ever away from "Parva sed Apta." There were
Madame Seraskier and Mimsey and the major, and my mother and Gogo, at
all times, in and out, and of course as unconscious of my solid presence
as though I had never existed. And as I looked at Mimsey and her mother
I wondered at my obtuseness in not recognizing at the very first glance
who the Duchess of Towers had been, and whose daughter. The height, the
voice, the eyes, certain tricks of gait and gesture--how could I have
failed to know her again after such recent dream opportunities?

And Seraskier, towering among them all, as his daughter now towered
among women. I saw that he lived again in his daughter; _his_ was the
smile that closed up the eyes, as hers did; had Mimsey ever smiled in
those days, I should have known her again by this very characteristic
trait.

Of this daughter of his (the Mimsey of the past years, not the duchess
of to-day) I never now could have enough, and made her go through again
and again all the scenes with Gogo, so dear to my remembrance, and to
hers. I was, in fact, the Prince Charmant, of whose unseen attendance
she had been conscious in some inconceivable way. What a strange