The days dragged by. Nights stayed long and the sun rose late. In the mornings the fields, which lay in front of the Terrace, were blanketed in sulphurous mist through which bare trees loomed spectral. Railings and walls and pavements were damp as though fear had caused them to sweat.
All night Nan and Barrington, lying side by side, feigned sleep or slept restlessly. Both were afraid to voice their dread lest, when spoken, it should seem more actual. Once, when a hansom jingled out of the distance and halted outside their house, they started up together listening. The fare alighted and walked a few doors down; again they drew breath.
“Why, Nan, little lady, did I wake you?”
“No, I was awake. I thought—— I thought it was I who had made you rouse.”
“I’ve not slept a wink since I lay down.”
“Neither have I.”
As he clasped her in the dark, he could feel her trembling. He held her tightly to him, laying his face against hers on the pillow. Again they both were listening.
“What makes you so frightened?”
He whispered the question.
“Always thinking, always thinking—— of the future and what may happen.”