She turns to the divan, and says aloud:
"The light is better there. It is more effective."
She crosses to the divan, and drawing the cushions together in a fashion that pleases her, sinks into them—half sitting, half reclining. The light from the rose lamp-shade casts a faint glow over the apartment. She looks across the room to her reflection in the long mirror opposite. She scans herself critically, draws another cushion under her arm, and leans her head on her hand. She adjusts her gown to her fancy, and her attitude is perfect. She is apparently satisfied with herself, for she remains as she is. Her face indicates nothing.
The minutes tick by.
Some one is standing in the doorway—she can see from under her half-closed lids in the glass across the room.
Everet stands, silently, watching her. She is evidently asleep. He crosses the floor softly and stands over her.
His glance takes in every detail of the entrancing picture; the whiteness of her arm on the pale blue of the pillow; the lace petticoat; the half-exposed foot; the curve of her neck.
He forgets that she may wake, and stands looking at her. His usually pale face flushes slightly, and his nervous fingers seem a little more nervous than usual.
The woman on the divan wakes at the right moment,—the moment could not have been more propitious had it been carefully selected.
She opens her eyes dreamily and looks at him. Then, with a little start of confusion sits erect, and murmurs something about "the heat of the room and the drowsiness of the dim light."