Shocked and grieved as I was, I made no attempt to remonstrate or to reason with him.
It would have been useless to have referred to any of the usual commonplaces about optical delusions or diseased imaginations--worse than useless to have attempted to account by natural causes for any of the extraordinary coincidences and events of which he had spoken.
Briefly as he had referred to Miss Elmslie, he had said enough to show me that the only hope of the poor girl who loved him best and had known him longest of any one was in humoring his delusions to the last.

How faithfully she still clung to the belief that she could restore him! How resolutely was she sacrificing herself to his morbid fancies, in the hope of a happy future that might never come! Little as I knew of Miss Elmslie, the mere thought of her situation, as I now reflected on it, made me feel sick at heart.
"They call me Mad Monkton!" he exclaimed, suddenly breaking the silence between us during the last few minutes, "Here and in England everybody believes I am out of my senses except Ada and you.

She has been my salvation, and you will be my salvation too.

Something told me that when I first met you walking in the Villa Peale.

I struggled against the strong desire that was in me to trust my secret to you, but I could resist it no longer when I saw you to-night at the ball; the phantom seemed to draw me on to you as you stood alone in the quiet room.