“Got to go to bed,” she said again, but she had meanwhile put her candlestick upon the little sideboard and was trimming the wick with a burnt match.
“Oh, come along, just half an hour,” he protested. She did not answer but went on prodding the wick of the candle.
“Ten minutes, then,” he said, still not going towards her.
“Five minutes,” he begged.
She shook her head, and picking up the candlestick turned to the door. He did not move, he just called her name: “Ruth!”
She came back then, put down the candlestick and tiptoed across the room until he met her. The bliss of the embrace was so poignant that he was almost glad when she stood up again and said with affected steadiness, though he heard the tremor in her voice:
“I must get you your candle.”
She brought one from the hall, set it on the table in front of him, and struck the match.
“What is my number?” he asked.
“Number six room,” she answered, prodding the wick vaguely with her match, while a slip of white wax dropped over the shoulder of the new candle. “Number six ... next to mine.”