“Harmon,” said Maida, when they were alone, “are you to be away long?”
During dinner she had said but little. Latterly she had complained of sleeplessness, and to banish the insomnia a physician had recommended the usual bromide of potassium. As she spoke, Mr. Incoul noticed that she was pale.
“Possibly not,” he answered.
She had been standing before the hearth, her bare arm resting on the velvet of the mantel, and her eyes following the flicker of the burning logs—but now she turned to him.
“Do you remember our pact?” she asked.
He looked at her but said nothing. She moved across the room to where he stood; one hand just touched his sleeve, the other she raised to his shoulder and rested it there for a second’s space. Her eyes sought his own, her head was thrown back a little, from her hair came the perfume of distant oases, her lips were moist and her neck was like a jasmine.
“Harmon,” she continued in a tone as low as were she speaking to herself, “we have come into our own.”
And then the caress passed from his sleeve, her hand fell from his shoulder, she glided from him with the motion of a swan.
“Come to me when you return,” she added. Her face had lost its pallor, it was flushed, but her voice was brave.