Suddenly he became aware of what was the matter; Clare was weeping. It was the merest hint of a sound, softer than falling leaves, just a catch of the breath that escaped her now and then. Stonor lay listening with bated breath, as if terrified of losing that which tore his heartstrings to hear. He was afflicted with a ghastly sense of impotence. He had no right to intrude on her grief. Yet how could he lie supine when she was in trouble, and make believe not to hear? He could not lie still. He got up, taking no care to be quiet, and built up the fire. She could not know, of course, that he had heard that broken breath. Perhaps she would speak to him. Or, if she could not speak, perhaps she would take comfort from the mere fact of his waking presence outside.
He heard no further sound from her tent.
After a while, because it was impossible for him not to say it, he softly asked: “Are you asleep?”
There was no answer.
He sat down by the fire listening and brooding—humming a little tune meanwhile to assure her of the blitheness of his spirits.
By and by a small voice issued from under her tent: “Please go back to bed,”—and he knew at once that she saw through his poor shift to deceive her.
“Honest, I don’t feel like sleeping,” he said cheerfully.
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” he lied. “Were you up?”
“You were worrying about me,” she said.