"Who told you that you are clairvoyant?" he asked.
"My mother."
"Then--"
"It was not necessary for anybody to tell me that I saw--more
clearly--than other people.... Mother knew it.... She merely explained
and gave a name to this--this--whatever it is--this quality--this
ability to see clearly.... That is all, Clive."
He was evidently trying to comprehend and digest what she had said.
She watched him, saw surprise and incredulity in conflict with
uneasiness and with the belief he could not avoid from lips that were
not fashioned for lies, and from eyes never made to even look
untruths.
"I had never supposed there was such a thing as real clairvoyance," he
said at last.
She remained silent, her candid gaze on him.
"I believe that you believe it, of course."
She smiled, then sighed: "There is no pleasure in it to me. I wish it were not so."
"But, if it is so, you ought to find it--interesting--"
"No."
"Why not? I should think you would!--if you can see--things--that
other people cannot."
"I don't care to see them."
"Why?"
"They--I see them so often--and I seldom know who they are--"
"They?"
"The--people--I see."
"Don't they ever speak to you?"
"Seldom."
"Could you find out who they are?"
"I don't know.... Yes, I think so;--if I made an effort."
"Don't you ever use any effort to evoke--"
"Oh, Clive! No! When I tell you I had rather not see so--so
clearly--"
"You dear girl!" he exclaimed, half smiling, half serious, "why should
it distress you?"
"It doesn't--except to talk about it."
"Let me ask one more question. May I?"
She nodded.
"Then--did you recognise whoever it was you saw a few moments ago?"
"Yes."
"Who was it, Athalie?"
"My mother."