He set a low whistle upon the air. It was not louder, he felt, than the agitated banging of his heart that succeeded it.
Again he whistled, and once again. There was a rustling from within.
“Margaret!” he softly called. “Margaret!”
She appeared. The blessed damosel leaned out. About her yearning face the long dark hair abundantly fell; her pretty bed-gown, unbuttoned low, gave him glimpse of snowy bosom, beautifully rounded.
“Oh, Bill!” she cried, stretching her arms.
Then, glancing downwards at her person, she stepped back swiftly. Reappearing, the soft round of her twin breasts was not to view.
She had buttoned up her night-dress.
“Oh, Bill!”
“Oh, Margaret!”
“Wow!” spoke Abiram in nerve-shattering welcome. “Wow!”