He felt in his pockets, found a small roll of bills. He laid twenty-five dollars on the table. "I'll keep thirty," he said, "as I shan't have any more till I see Tetlow to-morrow. Now, fly out and amuse yourself. I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me till you're ready for dinner."
And he went into his bedroom and closed the door. When he awoke, he saw that it was dark outside, and some note in the din of street noises from far below made him feel that it was late. He wrapped a bathrobe round him, opened the door into the sitting room. It was dark.
"Dorothy!" he called.
"Yes," promptly responded the small quiet voice, so near that he started back.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, and switched on the light. "There you are—by the window. What were you doing, in the dark?"
She was dressed precisely as when he had last seen her. She was sitting with her hands listless in her lap and her face a moving and beautiful expression of melancholy dreams. On the table were the bills—where he had laid them. "You've been out?" he said.
"No," she replied.
"Why not?"
"I've been—waiting."
"For what?" laughed he.