"I used to watch the clock," he said. He leaned towards her and spoke quickly, softly. "And I watch it still! From waking till dusk I watch it and think of you, sitting and waiting for me. Oh, what's the good of talking to me of books? You're here—and you're my wife, and I'll talk to you of nothing but yourself." He knelt, and his hands were on her waist. "Yourself—my beauty—my little saint—your little hands and feet—your cheeks I want to kiss—your hair—" He drew her to his breast and whispered, "How long is it—your hair?"
There was no resistance in her, and her neck could not hold up the head that drooped over his shoulder when he kissed her ear and spoke in it.
"Helen—Helen—I love you. Tell me you love me. You've got to kiss me—Yes—"
She answered in a quiet voice, but she stopped for breath between the words. "I think—there's some one—in the hall. It must be John."
Reluctantly he loosed her, and she left him quickly for the dark passage which covered and yet cooled her as she called out, "John! Is that you?"
"Both of us," Rupert answered.
"But it's Friday."
"Yes. Won't you let me have a whole holiday tomorrow?"
She looked back into the kitchen and saw George prepared to meet her brothers. Never before had she seen him with so fine a manner, and, smiling at him, she felt like a conspirator, leagued with this man who was liberated by possession of her, against the two who would feel horror when they learnt she was possessed.
John's jaw tightened as he saw George and nodded to him, but Rupert's greeting had its usual friendliness.