“To-morrow,” she said, “it will be better. We can be alone.” And then in a low voice she added, as if in explanation, “His permission is over to-morrow.”
Extinguishing the candles, Fergus opened the door and looked out. The rain had ceased and far above them beyond the roofs of the houses on the opposite side of the street, the searchlights fingered a sky that, save for one or two clouds, was blue and luminous like the street lamps.
“Look,” said Fergus, softly. “They’ve spotted one of them.” And they both stood in the open door fascinated by the sight of a Gotha turned to a silver dragon fly by a long finger of light. Far away in another part of the city there sounded a faint crash and then another and another. The sirens still screamed, now on one side of them, now on another.
“It is magnificent,” said Ellen, breathlessly.
“You see, they’re not dropping them anywhere near us. They are trying to hit the bridges and the government buildings. I’m only going around the corner ... into the Avenue Kléber.”
They were speaking in hushed voices, caught again in that mood of insignificance. One might have thought that in the blackness of the empty street there were figures listening. In the eyes of Fergus there was the light of fascination ... a bird held captive by a glittering snake.
“I must go,” murmured Fergus still watching the silver dragon fly. “I’m late already.”
She stood in the doorway until the darkness had swallowed him up and then, turning, slowly closed the door and went thoughtfully down the stairs. The sound of guns, the scream of the sirens and the echo of the distant, reverberating crashes grew fainter and fainter as she descended.
In the long drawing-room, standing before the fire with his glass in his hand Callendar was awaiting her. As she came toward him, she said, “I am proud of my brother,” with the air of making a challenge, as if she reproached him for his indifference.
“I have heard of him,” he said, quietly. “He is well known in the Division Reymont.”