He had kept his promise to Rosamund so far. He had made no further inquiries with regard to Irene. He had tried, as he expressed it, to wash his hands of her. He did not like her. He felt that he never could like her. There was something to him repugnant about her. He had a kind of uncanny feeling that she was a sort of changeling; that she could do extraordinary, defiant, and marvelous things. Now, as she looked full up at him, trying to steady her face, and trying to look as like an ordinary girl as possible, he endeavored to conceal a queer sort of fear which stole suddenly over his heart. He remembered the old stories; the servants who shrank from her, the wild creatures that seemed to be her constant companions, and the tricks she was capable of playing on any one.