The syllable fell idly from her lips.
'You are tired, dear. All this sound and fury has been too much for you. Lie down on the sofa till dinner-time.'
She allowed him to lead her across the room, and lay down as he wished. To his kiss upon her forehead she made no response, but closed her eyes and was very still. Harvey seated himself at his desk, and opened two or three unimportant letters which had arrived this morning. To one of them he wrote an answer. Turning presently to glance at Alma, he saw that she had not stirred, and when he leaned towards her, the sound of her breathing told him that she was asleep.
He meditated on Woman.
A quarter of an hour before dinner-time he left the room; on his return, when the meal was ready, he found Alma still sleeping, and so soundly that it seemed wrong to wake her. As rays of sunset had begun to fall into the room, he drew the blind, then quietly went out, and had dinner by himself.
At ten o'clock Alma still slept. Using a closely-shaded lamp, Harvey sat in the room with her and read—or seemed to read; for ever and again his eyes strayed to the still figure, and his thoughts wandered over all he knew of Alma's life. He wished he knew more, that he might better understand her. Of her childhood, her early maidenhood, what conception had he? Yet he and she were one—so said the creeds. And Harvey laughed to himself, a laugh more of melancholy than of derision.
The clock ticked on; it was near to eleven. Then Alma stirred, raised herself, and looked towards the light.
'Harvey——? Have I been asleep so long?'
'Nearly five hours.'
'Oh! That was last night——'