“Look!” marvelled Christopher. “She is smiling in her sleep.”
Seraphine turned to Dr. Owen, with radiant countenance.
“It is God's sign. Come! Penelope will awaken soon and must find herself alone with her lover. It will be the real Penelope. You will see. Let us draw back into the shadows. You stay near her,” she motioned to Herrick, then turned down the lights except a yellow-shaded lamp near the sleeper.
And, presently, watching with breathless interest, these three saw Penelope stir naturally and open her eyes.
“Why, how strange!” she exclaimed. “I must have gone to sleep. Why did you let me go to sleep, Chris?” she questioned her lover, with bright, happy eyes in which there was no trace of her recent perturbations of spirit.
“It's all right, Pen,” he said reassuringly. “You were a little—a little faint, I guess.”
She held out her hand lovingly and beckoned him to her side.
“Sit by me here. I had such a horrible dream. I'm so glad to see you, dear. I'm so glad to be awake. Oh!” She started up in embarrassment as she saw that her dress was disarranged. “What's the matter with my dress? What did I do? What has happened? Tell me. You must tell me,” she begged in confusion.
“Don't worry, sweetheart,” he soothed her. “It was the excitement of all that talk—that ass of a poet.”
Penelope passed her hand over her eyes in a troubled effort to remember. It was pathetic to see her groping backwards through a daze of confused impressions. The last clear thing in her mind was exchanging rings with her lover. How long had they been here? What time was it? What must Roberta think of them, staying up in her apartment all alone?