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"Is he at home?"

"--!"

"Would you ask him to come to the telephone?"

"--!"

"Please say to hi quiet of her roo rain busy at her s; the ticking of the small French clock, very dull, very far away--or was it her heart? And, faintly ringing in the receiver pressed against her ear, s, sounds like instru through the halls of fairy-land, a faint confusion of human-like tones; then: "Who is it?"

Her voice left her for an instant; her dry lips made no answer

"Who is it?" he repeated in his steady, pleasant voice

"It is I"

There was absolute silence--so long that it frightened her But before she could speak again his voice was sounding in her ears, patient, unconvinced: "I don't recognise your voice Who a to?"

"Sylvia"

There was no response, and she spoke again: "I only wanted to say good ood ?"

"No I'm badly rattled Is it you, Sylvia?"

"Indeed it is I a"

"I don't knohat I did think Is it necessary for me to telephone you a minute account of theyou up--out of the vasty deep?"

The old ring in her voice hinting of the laughing undertone, the sa sweetness of inflection--could he doubt his senses any longer?