He looked up at her slowly, stupidly, his dull eyes scrutinising her, a frown contracting his brows: then his gaze travelled to the hand on his shoulder and stayed there. He moved his shoulder impatiently.
“What’s the matter?” he said in thickened tones. “I thought you were asleep.”
“You promised that you would not be long,” she said. “I waited for you. Come to bed, Paul; it’s late.”
“I shan’t be long,” he muttered. “You’ll take cold.” He stared at her deshabille. “Don’t be silly, Esmé; go back to bed.”
“Dear.” She put her hand under his arm and attempted to raise him. “Come with me. I am afraid.”
She looked frightened; her face was blanched and tense; her whole body trembled. He stared at her, amazed. Then clumsily he got on to his feet and stood unsteadily before her, assisted by her supporting hand. Slowly she led him towards the door. He appeared reluctant to go with her; and at the door he halted irresolutely and attempted, without success, to free himself from her hold. Her grasp on his arm tightened.
“Come with me,” she urged.
“I’ve never known you to be so foolish before,” he said. “Why should a little wind make you nervous? It blows hard often enough to have accustomed you to it.”
“I don’t feel well, Paul,” she pleaded. “I want you with me.”
She drew him on towards the stairs. He took hold of the banister and mounted, stumbling, and kicking against each stair in his progress. She got him as far as the landing; but when she strove to draw him on towards the bedroom he resisted.