She was probably a member of some clique that called themselves Fourth Dimensionists—­just as there had been pre-Raphaelites.  It was a matter of cant allegory.  I began to wonder how it was that I had never heard of them.  And how on earth had they come to hear of me!

“She must have read something of mine,” I found myself musing:  “the Jenkins story perhaps.  It must have been the Jenkins story; they gave it a good place in their rotten magazine.  She must have seen that it was the real thing, and....”  When one is an author one looks at things in that way, you know.

By that time I was ready to knock at the door of the great Callan.  I seemed to be jerked into the commonplace medium of a great, great—­oh, an infinitely great—­novelist’s home life.  I was led into a well-lit drawing-room, welcomed by the great man’s wife, gently propelled into a bedroom, made myself tidy, descended and was introduced into the sanctum, before my eyes had grown accustomed to the lamp-light.  Callan was seated upon his sofa surrounded by an admiring crowd of very local personages.  I forget what they looked like.  I think there was a man whose reddish beard did not become him and another whose face might have been improved by the addition of a reddish beard; there was also an extremely moody dark man and I vaguely recollect a person who lisped.

They did not talk much; indeed there was very little conversation.  What there was Callan supplied.  He—­spoke—­very—­slowly—­and—­very —­authoritatively, like a great actor whose aim is to hold the stage as long as possible.  The raising of his heavy eyelids at the opening door conveyed the impression of a dark, mental weariness; and seemed somehow to give additional length to his white nose.  His short, brown beard was getting very grey, I thought.  With his lofty forehead and with his superior, yet propitiatory smile, I was of course familiar.  Indeed one saw them on posters in the street.  The notables did not want to talk.  They wanted to be spell-bound—­and they were.  Callan sat there in an appropriate attitude—­the one in which he was always photographed.  One hand supported his head, the other toyed with his watch-chain.  His face was uniformly solemn, but his eyes were disconcertingly furtive.  He cross-questioned me as to my walk from Canterbury; remarked that the cathedral was a—­magnificent—­Gothic—­Monument and set me right as to the lie of the roads.  He seemed pleased to find that I remembered very little of what I ought to have noticed on the way.  It gave him an opportunity for the display of his local erudition.

“A—­remarkable woman—­used&mdas
h;­to—­live—­in—­the—­cottage—­next—­the—­mill—­at—­Stelling,” he said; “she was the original of Kate Wingfield.”

“In your ‘Boldero?’” the chorus chorussed.

Remembrance of the common at Stelling—­of the glimmering white faces of the shadowy cottages—­was like a cold waft of mist to me.  I forgot to say “Indeed!”