Midway in undressing his eyes chanced upon her picture, framed and hanging opposite the foot of the bed—a large photograph, with Winchie, a tiny baby, against her shoulder, his fat check pressing upon hers. Basil stood before the picture, his expression a very human and moving mingling of awe and adoration and passion. Suddenly he remembered to whom that picture belonged. "But not she!" he said aloud defiantly. Nevertheless, he flushed, hung his head, switched off the light, and sought his bed. "How can I ever face him?" he muttered. Then: "She is mine! She never was really his. I take nothing that belongs to him. I take nothing she could give, or ever did give, to him."
He fell immediately into a sound sleep—the exhaustion of nerves so long on fierce tension. But about two in the morning he started up, listened. Yes, some one was moving beneath the window. He went to it, looked down. There was Courtney, swathed in a long, dark cloak. He thrust his feet into slippers, drew on a big dressing gown, descended, and opened the door. He stretched out his arms.
She flung herself against his breast. "I couldn't go without seeing you again," she panted. "After I left you, and got into bed, I began to think all sorts of dreadful things about you. You acted so strangely. And then I felt ashamed of myself, felt I must come and beg your pardon. And—and—here I am. Are you glad?"
His laugh was answer enough. He took her in his arms, carried her up to the sitting room, set her down on the sofa. "How light you are!" he cried. "But how strong—I've seen you swing Winchie to your shoulder as if he were nothing at all. Now—please—won't you let your hair down? There never was such hair as yours."
She sat up, let the cloak fall away. The moon was flooding the room. As she sat there, with eyes sparkling and small, sensitive face shy-bold, she looked as if she had sprung to mortal life from an old folk song about loreleis and nymphs and enchanted princesses. "You floated in on the moonbeams," he declared. "I'm afraid, if I don't shut the window, you'll flit away."
"That'd not stop me," laughed she. And she began to take her hair down. Just as it was about to unroll, she paused. "Wouldn't you like to take it down yourself?"
He went round behind her, drew out the hairpins one by one, fumbling softly, lingeringly for them, keeping them carefully. Her hair loosened, uncoiled, fell about her in a shimmering veil. "Oh, my love!" he cried. "My beautiful Courtney!" And he took the soft, perfumed veil in his hands, kissed it again and again, buried his face in it, wrapped her head and his together in it.
She laughed delightedly, then drew away, looking at him with mock severity. "And where, sir, did you learn how to make a woman so happy?"
"What things you do say!" he laughed, just a little bit scandalized. "I might ask the same question of you."
"And I can answer it—" with a mocking smile—"without evasion. Imagination. I've so often thought—and thought—and thought—what I would be to a man I freely loved—one I wasn't afraid of scandalizing. Oh, I know I shock you—for there's a great deal you've yet to learn about women—that they're human, just like men. But you'll learn—and then I think you'll see I'm good—for I am. I couldn't be bad—hate anyone—play mean tricks, say or do mean things. Don't you wish I were tall—wish there were more of me?"