"Is she dead?" she whispered.
O'Bannon shook his head, and hardly making a sound, his lips formed the words, "Go away."
Miss Bennett really couldn't do that.
"It's almost five o'clock," she said reproachfully.
He nodded.
"Go away," he said.
In her bright satin dressing gown she sat down, but he could see that she was nervous and uncertain. He summoned all the powers of will that he possessed; he fixed his eyes on her, compelling her to look at him; and when he felt he had gathered her in he raised his right hand and gently but decisively pointed to the door. She got up and went out.
The fire had burned itself completely out now, and the cold of the hours before dawn began to penetrate the room. O'Bannon began to apprehend the fact that this night must some time end—that Lydia must presently wake up. He dreaded the moment there would be more anger, more repudiation of the obvious bond between them, more torture and separation. He shivered, and leaning forward he softly drew her cloak from a neighboring chair and laid it over her, tucking it in about her shoulders. He was afraid the movement might have waked her, but she seemed to sleep on.
Again the minutes began to slip enchantedly away, and then far away in the house, in some remote upper story, he heard a footstep. Housemaids. Inwardly be called down the curse of heaven upon them. He glanced down at Lydia, and suddenly knew—how he knew it he could not say—that she had heard it too; that she had been awake a long time, since he put the cloak over her—perhaps since Miss Bennett had left the room.
Awake and content! His heart began to beat loudly, violently.