The door must slightly have opened. She could now see it open in the gloom.
"Sally."
It was Toby. Joy took the place of fear. He was inside the door, and she was in his arms, and the door was closed again behind them.
"My dear," Sally was saying, in a thick little caressing voice. "My dear."
"Had to come," mumbled Toby, hoarsely. "Thought of you all alone. I wanted you. See, I had to come."
"Of course you did," murmured Sally, her spirit leaping up and up in tempestuous excitement. "Toby, you do love me? You do truly love me?"
She had no sense then of anything but her love for him and his love for her. She was carried right past caution and thought. She was in his arms, and she was happy. And Toby, a dim figure of burly strength, was kissing her until she was blinded and choking with excitement beyond all she had ever felt. Everything conspired to affect her—all suppressions, all knowledges, all curiosities and vanities. Nothing but caution could have restrained her, and caution was forgotten. She was vehemently moved and beyond judgment or reflection. Her one desire was to give herself to the man she loved, the man who loved her. And the opportunity was upon them as they were in the first fever of their passion.