veiled face, bearing white poppies in her hands.

XVII

Loved by a Dog

Anthony Dexter sat on the porch in front of his house, alone. Ralph
had been out since early morning, attending to his calls. It was the
last of April and the trees were brave in their panoply of new leaves.
Birds were singing and the very air was eloquent with new life.

Between Anthony Dexter and the lilac bush at the gate, there moved
perpetually the black, veiled figure of Evelina Grey. He knew she was
not there and he was fully certain of the fact that it was an
hallucination, but his assurance had not done away with the phantom.

How mercilessly she followed him! Since the night he had flung himself
out of her house, tortured in every nerve, she had not for a moment
left him. When he walked through the house, she followed him, her
stealthy footfall sounding just the merest fraction of a second after
his. He avoided the bare polished floors and walked on the rugs
whenever possible, that he might not hear that soft, slow step so
plainly. Ralph had laughed at him, once, for taking a long, awkward
jump from rug to rug.

Within the line of his vision she moved horizontally, but never back
and forth. Sometimes her veiled face was averted, and sometimes,
through the eternal barrier of chiffon, he could feel her burning eyes
fixed pitilessly upon his.

He never slept, now, without drugs. Gradually he had increased the
dose, but to no purpose. Evelina haunted his sleep endlessly and he
had no respite. Through the dull stupor of the night, she was never
for a moment absent, and in every horrible dream, she stood in the
foreground, mute, solitary, accusing.

He was fully aware of the fact that he was in the clutches of a drug
addiction, but that was nothing to be feared in comparison with his
veiled phantom. He had exhausted the harmless soporifics long ago, and
turned, perforce, to the swift and deadly ministers of forgetfulness.

The veiled figure moved slowly back and forth across the yard, lifting
its skirts daintily to avoid a tiny pool of water where a thirsty robin
was drinking. The robin, evidently, did not fear Evelina. He could
hear the soft, slow footfalls on the turf, and the echo of three or
four steps upon the brick walk, when she crossed. She kept carefully
within the line of his vision; he did not have to turn his head to see
her. When he did turn his head, she moved with equal swiftness. Not
for a single