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Una began to feel as if a Meg-of-the-many-feet, a centipede, was stealing down her back, but its hundred little feet were silver-pointed—tipped with light.

“I—got—it!” Again a finger was pointed at her—not the ring finger, that was held out level. “Not—not dot an’ dash, this time: whisper—speech, I got it; one amateur asking another—‘play a few holes of golf—before breakfast!’” Never had a girl’s eyebrows gone so high in the world of wonder, of mischief, before, as those black ones lifted over the blue, listening eyes—for every organ of the body was now “listening in.”

“Word here, word there—repeated an’ repeated—I got it. B-but what’s this? Never—never singing, before six o’clock in the morning. So-o faint! Oh! it seems—seems to come from the far edge of nothing.”

And to the “far edge of nothing” Pemrose Lorry listened, every pulse an ear, until her hearing, so trained in this new aërial communication, began to pick up syllables—words—faint as far moon-shine, indeed, yet half-clear upon the air: