The first was sheer panic, and the second was a sense of inevitability.
The second was the oddest of the two, because he did not believe in Fate,
but he did believe in his own will.
It was his own will, therefore, that made him walk steadily and
indifferently towards her. His head bent as though he did not see her.
It was really the wind in her hair now. It caught the ends of her long,
loose coat and carried them out behind her. Her slender feet moved
uncertainly in the circle of lamp-light. Any moment they might break
into one of the quaint little dances. Or the wind might carry her off
altogether in a mysterious gust down the street and out of sight. It was
like his vision of her that evening in Acacia Grove. It made him feel
more and more unreal and frightened of himself.
He was almost past her when he spoke.
"Robert Stonehouse," she said rather authoritatively, as though she
expected him to run away; "Robert Stonehouse----"
He stopped short with his heart beating in his throat. But he did not
take the hand that she held out to him. He could only stare at her,
frowning in his distress, and she asked: "You do know who I am, don't
you?"
"Yes. Francey--Francey Wilmot--Miss Wilmot." He forced himself to stop
stammering, and added stiffly: "I did not know you had recognized me."
"Didn't you? I thought---- Well, I did recognize you anyhow. I was
so astonished at first that I thought it was a sort of materialization.
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