It was the first time that Jean had ever seen Gregory asleep. She wanted, with an almost irresistible need, to draw him closer. The thought of Margaret Allen stabbed as it had never done before. Margaret had nothing that was hers, but she had so much less than was her own. And Gregory had so much less than was his. Between them Margaret stood, clutching with each hand a part of what was theirs, giving nothing in return.
Then the need to make Gregory happy, to yield for his happiness every scrap of herself, to give everything that was beautiful, to drown in this beauty the ugliness over which she had no control, and, if there was anything unbeautiful in their own relations, to make it perfect, swept Jean. There should be nothing but peace and content in her. Her hand moved lightly over Gregory's hair. It was thick and soft, with a deep wave that drew her hand.
Herrick's hair had been fine and rather silky. Again Jean wondered at the separateness of her two selves.
The sun was going when Gregory woke. He had slept deeply and woke with a dazed, child look in his eyes. Jean wished for a moment that he were really a child so that she could pick him up in her arms and carry him away, follow the sun, and never be separated any more.
"That was some sleep!"
"You almost snored."
"Impossible. Even my prosaic soul couldn't snore in the spring woods—with a lady."
He reached both arms and drew Jean's head down.
"Such a nice lady! I love her."
"I don't believe it. Sleeping! While the lady has to stay awake and drive away—malaria. Look, the sun has almost gone, it's only just touching the very edge of the farthest strip."