She waited to see him start. He turned away reluctantly. As he entered the shadow of the archway he thought she kissed her hand.
CHAPTER XXXIX—ON THE RIVER
But had she? Had she kissed her hand? And, if she had, did it mean anything?
Harry, having hauled him back into college, had crept away sleepily, thankful that his watch was ended. Peter sat on by the open window, imagining and questioning. The wide white moon rode quietly at anchor; dusk-gray roofs were vague as an ocean bed. Not a sound. Nothing stirred.
But yes. Behind stone walls of a college garden a recluse nightingale commenced to warble: little notes at first, as though a child threw back the counterpane of darkness and muttered to itself; then a cry—a full, clear stream of song that fell like silver showered through the tree-tops. Peter closed his eyes; imprisoned love was speaking with its throat outstretched. In the shadows a heart was pouring forth its yearning; the world slept. Was love always like that—a bird in a hidden garden, with none to listen, setting dreams to music?
A sash was raised. It was across the street and further down. The sound came from the Professor’s house. It might be Glory. Odd, if they two were keeping watch together! Should he call to her? If he remembered, he would question her to-morrow. His eyes grew dusty; he folded his arms beneath his head.
Someone entered. Morning! He was drenched with sunlight. A voice addressed him discreetly, apologetically, “Overdoin’ it a bit last night? Shall I pour out your bath, sir? It’ll pull you together.”
Peter laughed gaily, then a little shamefully when he realized what the scout had meant. “I’m having brekker out. My bath—no, it doesn’t matter.”