"Theresa Webb, how often do you lie awake?"
"Not often."
"And do you dream?"
She raised her brows. "That's part of sleep."
"Not with me, thank God," he said heartily. "But you come here in the mornings, looking as if you'd had nightmares."
"I don't believe it! But I do have nightmares—wild beasts and burglars—all the ordinary things. I daresay it tires one." Colour was in her cheeks, and her eyes were guarded. She looked at him, but she saw the place of the dreams that came in spite of prayer; the quiet lake under the riven rock. She felt the soft wind in her hair, and heard the water lapping.
The shaking of Neville's head blurred her vision, and his voice boomed through the chaos of dissolving hill and lake.
"It won't do. I've watched men and women for years, and I know there's something on your mind. What's the matter?"
She leaned back, with all her defences up and pride for the strong inner wall. She scorned herself for sentimental weakness, and with feverish hands she thrust it back for the enemy it was.
"There's nothing the matter," she said, and determined that, henceforth, those words should be the faithful echo of her heart. "I'm a restless sort of creature. I wear myself out. I'll try to be more sensible." Her smile was a little stretched. "One doesn't always know what one wants."