He gathered some of his things together, and then held out his hand. "Good-night, Kate. I wouldn't lie awake thinking, if I were you. What's the good if it? We will just have to make the best of it for the boy. But I'd like you to know two things----"
"Yes----"
"That I couldn't forget, of course; and that----" he paused. "Well! that doesn't matter; it's only about myself and it doesn't mean much after all. So, good-night."
As she moved to the door also, forced into following him by the ache in her heart for him, more than for herself, the jingle of her anklets made him turn with an easy laugh.
"It doesn't sound respectable," he said; then, with a sudden compunction, added: "But the dress is much prettier than those dancing girls', and--by Heaven, Kate! you've always been miles too good for me; and that's the fact. Well I--let us leave it for to-morrow."
Yes! for to-morrow, she told herself, with a determination not to think as, dressed as she was, she nestled down into the strange softness of the camp bed, too weary of the pain and pity of this coming back even for tears. Yet she thought of one thing; not that she was safe, not that she would see the boy again. Only of the thing he had been going to tell her about himself. What was it? She wanted to know; she wanted to know all--everything. "Herbert!" she whispered to the pillow, "I wish you had told me--I want to know--I want to make it easier for--for us all."
And so, not even grateful for her escape, she fell asleep dreamlessly.
It was dawn when she woke with the sound of someone talking outside. He had come back. No! that was not his voice. She sat up listening.
"The servants say she is asleep. Someone had better go in and wake her. The Doctor----"
"He's behind with the dhooli. Ah! there's Morecombe; he knows her."