He explained eagerly. "You must have noticed how much like my mother she
was? Her brow was the same--her eyes the same--"
"Yes, they were a little like hers."
"But her mouth and chin were exactly like yours. Her hands were like
yours. She held her head exactly as you do--and then she changed;
sometimes my mother predominated in her, sometimes you were the
stronger."
The girl was deeply affected by the significance of this analysis. "You
imagined all that."
He pushed on. "I did not, and, furthermore, Altair never came till you
sat with my mother. She never attained such power--so your aunt
agrees--till I came into the circle. She represented my conception of my
mother and you. I loved my mother, and I admired you--and out of my love
and admiration Altair was created."
"That is absurd! If ever a spirit came from heaven, Altair was that one.
Why, she was palpable! I've touched her hands."
He said, slowly: "She was beautiful, I confess, so beautiful that on
that first night she made even you seem coarse and material."
"I felt your disdain," she thrust in, with sudden hurt.
"But that was only for the moment. I could see nothing but her face--so
sad, so wistful. But let me ask you something. Did you, the night after
our walk on the drive in the moonlight--did you dream of me?"