III
The moonlight streamed through the slanting window, pitching a dim ray upon Wynne as he lay asleep.
It was dark in the lonely corner, on the far side of the room, where, very faintly, the outline of a slim white figure could be seen—a figure hugging her knees and resting her chin upon them. Very quiet it was—just the rise and fall of a man’s breathing and the muted, humming noises of the night.
The clocks of the City coughed and jarred the hour of three.
Presently the still white figure moved, and, bare-footed, crossed the floor between the two beds. For a little while she stood looking down upon the sleeping man; then, in answer to a human impulse too gentle, and yet too strong to be denied, stooped and laid her head beside his upon the pillow. Her breath was warm upon his cheek, but he made no movement; her hair tressed upon his arm, but it did not quicken to life and fold around her, as a husband’s might; her lips were almost touching his, but he did not move that they might meet in the darkness.
With a little catch in her throat Eve lifted herself and crossed to the lonely shadows beneath the sloping roof.