"And never send me away from you?"
"You shall never leave me but of your own will."
"I think I was going mad with the thought of losing you!"
"My beloved girl!..."
The dusky stillness of the room was murmurous with whispers, sighs, terms of endearment half smothered and all but inaudible.
To these a foreign and alarming sound: a rapping at the door.
Matthias lifted his head, wincing from the interruption. The girl in his arms moved feebly, as if to disengage. He held her for a moment still more close. Her heart sounded sonorously against his bosom. "Hush!" he said in a low and warning voice. And then the rapping was repeated. At once he released her. She moved away, blushing and dishevelled, the fragrant freshness of her starched linen waist a crumpled disorder, her hair in disarray; her crimson face one of many evidences of the tumult of her senses.
In the hallway a man's voice said: "He must be in. There's a light—"
A woman answered impatiently: "Of course he's in; but the chances are he's asleep." She called in a louder tone: "Jack—Jack Matthias!"
Recognizing the voice of his aunt, that person groaned aloud—"O Lord!"—stole a glance at Joan, hesitated, shrugged, as if to say: There's no help for it! Then he answered the door.