Dick's voice, saying, "Oh, you aren't asleep."
"What time is it?"
"About half past one." It was Richard's voice, yet not his.
A long silence. She could hear her heart beating—the ticking of the little clock on the night stand—the murmur of the breeze among the boughs—and another sound—she thought it must be the beating of his heart.
Then he: "May I turn up the light—just for a minute?"
"I'll turn it up." She did so, and as she lay down again saw with a swift furtive glance that his face was haggard, that his eyes seemed deep sunk in black pits, and that he was gazing at the floor. And still she had the sense of unreality, of the dream that will pass.
He advanced a step or two. She felt him intently looking at her. Again that breathless silence. Then he gave a great sigh, bent over her, gently kissed her hair. "What glorious hair you have," he said. "And what a pure, innocent face. It's only necessary to see your face, to know you are good."
She wondered why her skin was not burning, why her lips did not open and her voice cry out. "But when this is past," she said to herself, "no more lies—never again!"
"Good night," he was saying.
"Good night," she murmured, the sense of unreality, of the passing dream, stronger than ever.