Thank you." In the throbbing quiet of her room she heard the fingers of the prying rain busy at her windows; 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, millions of tiny stirrings, sounds like instruments of an elfin orchestra tuning, echoes as of steps passing 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 am I speaking to ?" "Sylvia." There was no response, and she spoke again: "I only wanted to say good morning.

It is afternoon now; is it too late to say good morning ?" "No.

I'm badly rattled.