I stepped out from the shelter of my archway into the middle of the room, dubious as to what course to pursue.  I thought that, on the whole, the movement that would startle her least would be to slip quietly out of the room and out of the house while she was in the reverie, then knock at the door.  She would arouse herself then, expecting to see some one, and would not be so entirely taken by surprise at the sight of my face as she would have been at finding me, without the slightest warning, standing behind her in the room.  I did this:  I slipped out at the door and knocked, gently at first, but got no answer; then a little louder—­no answer; then louder and louder, till at last I thundered at the door in a state of growing alarm; still no answer.

‘She is stone deaf,’ I thought; and now I remembered having noticed, as she brushed past me, a far-off gaze in her eyes, such as some stone-deaf people show.

I re-entered the house.  There she was, sitting immovably before the fire, in the same reverie.  I coughed and hemmed, softly at first, then more loudly, finally with such vigour that I ran the risk of damaging my throat, and still there was no movement of that head bent over the fire and resting in the palms of the hands.  At last I made a step forward, then another, finally finding myself on the knitted cloth hearthrug beside her.  I now had the full view of her profile.  That she should be still unconscious of my presence was unaccountable, for I stood at the end of the rug gazing at her.  Again I coughed and hemmed, but without producing the smallest effect.  Then I determined to address her; but I thought it would be safer to do so as a stranger than to announce myself at once as Henry.

‘I beg pardon,’ I said, ‘but is there any one at home?’

No answer.

’Is this the way to Capel Curig?

No answer.

‘Will you give me shelter?’ I said; and finally I gave a desperate ‘halloo.’

My efforts had not produced the slightest effect.  I was now in a state of great agitation.  That she was stone deaf seemed evident.  But was she not in some kind of fit, though without the contortions of face Mivart had described to me—­contortions which haunted me as much as though I had seen them?  I stooped down and gazed into her face.  There was now no terror there, nor even sorrow.  I could see in her eyes sparks of pleasure, as in the eyes of an infant when it seems to see in the air pictures or colours to which our eyes are blind.  Round about her cheek and mouth a little dimple was playing, exactly like the dimple that plays around the mouth of a pleased child.  This marvellous expression on her face recalled to me what Mivart had said as to the form her dementia assumed between one paroxysm and another.

‘Thank God,’ thought I, ‘she’s not in a fit:  she’s only deaf.’