He was back again in the confusion from which he thought he had escaped. Here was a definite test, offered at least in good faith—just such a test as had been lacking before; and he had no doubt whatever that it would be borne out by facts. And if it were—was there any conceivable hypothesis that would explain it except the one offered so confidently by this grave, dignified man who sat and looked at him with something of interested compassion in his heavy eyes? Coincidence? It was absurd. Certainly graves did sink, sometimes—but … Thought-transference from someone who noticed the grave? … But why that particular thought, so vivid, concise, and pointed? …
If it were true? …
He looked hopelessly at the man, who sat smoking quietly and waiting.
And then again another thought, previously ignored, pierced him like a sword. If it were true; if Amy herself, poor pretty Amy, had indeed been there, were indeed near him now, hammering and crying out like a child shut out at night, against his own skeptical heart … if it were indeed true that during those two hours she had had her heart’s desire, and had been one with his very soul, in a manner to which no earthly union could aspire … how had he treated her? Even at this thought a shudder of repulsion ran through him. … It was unnatural, detestable … yet how sweet! … What did the Church say of such things? … But what if religion were wrong, and this indeed were the satiety of the higher nature of which marriage was but the material expression? …
The thoughts flew swifter than clouds as he sat there, bewildering, torturing, beckoning. He made a violent effort. He must be sane, and face things.
“ Mr. Vincent,” he cried.
The kindly face turned to him again.