Presently the footsteps drew near to his bed. For
a moment he was obliged to set his teeth. A little waft of
peculiar, unanalysable perfume, half-fascinating, half-repellent,
came to him with a sense of disturbing familiarity. She paused by
his bedside. He felt her hand steal under the pillow, which his
head scarcely touched; search the pockets of his dressing gown,
search even the bed. He listened to her soft breathing. The
consciousness of her close and intimate presence affected him in
an inexplicable manner. Presently, to his intense relief, she
glided away from his immediate neighbourhood, and the moment for
which he had waited came. He heard her retreating footsteps pass
through the communicating door into his little sitting room, where
he had purposely left a light burning. He slipped softly from the
bed and followed her. She was bending over an open desk as he
crossed the threshold. He closed the door and stood with his back
to it.
"Much warmer," he said, "only, you see, it isn't there."
She started violently at the sound of his voice, but she did not
immediately turn around. When she did so, her demeanour was
almost a shock to him. There was no sign of nervousness or
apology in her manner. Her eyes flashed at him angrily. She wore
a loose red wrap trimmed with white fur, a dishabille unusually
and provokingly attractive.
"So you were shamming sleep!" she exclaimed indignantly.
"Entirely," he admitted.
Neither spoke for a moment.
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