"Play to me a little, Amaryllis, and then go to bed, child—you must be tired out."
And after that he had not spoken more, but pushed her gently towards the door with a solemn kiss on the forehead, and just a murmur of "Good-night." And she had deceived herself and thought that it meant that he would come quickly, and so she had run up the stairs.
But now it was after two in the morning, and would soon be growing towards dawn—and John was out there sighing alone!
She crept to the window and leaned upon the sill. She thought that she could distinguish his tall figure there by the carved stone bench.
"John!" she called softly, "I am, so lonely—John, dearest—won't you come?"
Then she felt that her ears must be deceiving her, for there was the sound of a faint suppressed sob, and then, a second afterwards, her husband's voice answering cheerily, with its usual casual note:
"You naughty little night bird! Go back to bed—and to sleep—yes—I am coming immediately now!"
But when he did steal in silently from the dressing-room an hour later in a grey dawn, Amaryllis, worn out with speculation and disappointment, had fallen asleep.
He looked down upon her charming face—the long, curly brown lashes sweeping the flushed cheek, and at the rounded, beautiful girlish form—all his very own to clasp and to kiss and to hold in his arms—and two scalding tears gathered in his blue eyes, and he took his place beside her without making a sound.