I can draw no final conclusions from what goes on between Sinfire and Henry. She watches him constantly, though unobtrusively; but when he attempts to be attentive to her (as he often does) she draws back. This may be acting, on the part of both of them: what they may do when they are alone together of course I don't know; and I can observe them only occasionally. Henry sustains with success the rôle of a man who is anxious to make himself agreeable to a pretty girl whom he sees for the first time. Sinfire does not—perhaps does not care to—create exactly the same impression. In a score of ways, voluntary or involuntary, she indicates that her knowledge of him is of long standing. But she seems to be hesitating,—to be in doubt. Possibly she cannot make up her mind whether to declare open war or to try to bind him to her by a tie that cannot be broken. It is a pathetic, almost a tragic situation, and it interests and excites me more than I should have expected. Whichever horn of the dilemma the girl decides upon, mischief will come of it; but I am inclined to think that war is her safer course. If she trusts herself to Henry again, she is ruined beyond redemption.
On the other hand, putting myself in Henry's place, I don't understand why he does not carry the war into the enemy's country and denounce Sinfire as an impostor. It is a bad sign in him that he does not do so. The debt he owes her must be something more than ordinary, if he shrinks from repudiating it. Unless she be married to him (which is out of the question, or she would have come to us as his wife), she can have no legal hold upon him,—except upon the hypothesis, which I do not like even to mention, that she has cognizance of some crime that he has committed against the law. Hateful though this idea is, it must be confessed that it would elucidate much of the mystery.
One strange feature in Sinfire's conduct I have not mentioned: it is her attitude towards me. Although since Henry's arrival she has carefully avoided being alone with me, there is something in her manner that makes me feel as if our spiritual intimacy, so to speak, had deepened immensely since our interview in the laboratory. Her eyes have occasionally met mine with an expression I cannot describe; but it makes something burn within me. What does she mean? Is it an appeal,—a silent cry for help? or is it that and something more? And again, when she puts her hand in mine to say good-night, there is an emanation from her presence,—from her eyes, her lips, her bosom; it touches me like an embrace, but it penetrates further than any embrace can reach. I cannot analyze this emotion; I have no wish to question its origin or issue. For me, it is a thing out of all relation to other things. Especially at this time must I beware of allowing it to mingle
