Grandison helped her mechanically; the pleasure of her presence near him was so great that he was afraid to speak lest some word of his might scare her away. Together they unfolded the legs of the narrow iron bedstead, set it upon its feet, covered it with a weedy mattress and a coverlet. Then they laid the carpet on the floor, set the trunk in one corner, the washstand in another, and put the table in the middle of the room. There was nothing more to be done, and after speaking once or twice of buying such necessaries as a broom and a looking-glass, they became silent again, Anne sitting in the only chair, Grandison upon the bed, while darkness closed in on them very slowly.
It seemed to the girl then that at last she had found what she had been seeking.
“I have found this room,” she said to herself, and already she was at home in it, and she sat musing over the vast landscape of the future, of which she had suddenly caught a glimpse as she had of Paris itself, but without knowledge and unable to recognize the landmarks.
But at last, rousing herself, she looked about her and asked suddenly: “How will you paint in such a small room?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I only paint because Richard does.”
“It has got dark,” she said. “I can’t see your face.”
He struck a match and they looked at each other.
“I haven’t got a candle,” he said apologetically. “And there is no gas.”
Anne rose from her chair. “She is going,” Grandison said to himself as he stood up. Their hands touched and they embraced. “I have always loved you. Before I knew you. Before I knew myself, while I was still in the navy,” he whispered rapidly between his kisses.
The whispering went on and on in the dark room, lit by the flickering arc lamps in the street below. Each whisper was a charm that breathed love into her, that stole away her strength, and that changed her nature. Yet Anne still held herself alert, danger seemed near; at any moment a heavy footstep might sound upon the stairs, a voice break in. It seemed to her that if she sat very still the danger might pass, and when Grandison’s voice rose she stroked his hair nervously—hair as short and thick and soft as fur.