A few moments passed and the curtains were drawn aside again. The woman entered. In her wake was a big man in white drill, with sleek, black hair and a close-clipped, black moustache.
On seeing him Pansy gave a little hysterical cry.
"Oh, Raoul, I was so afraid you were just a dream!"
"No, I'm not a dream, but a solid fact," he replied, going towards her.
"Come quite close. I want to touch you to make sure."
Nothing loath, he seated himself on the bed.
Pansy took one of his hands, holding it in a tight, nervous grip.
"Yes, it is really you," she said. "In the whole wide world there's no one who feels quite the same as you."
She had forgotten his coldness and harshness on the occasion of their last meeting in Grand Canary—his colour, his religion, everything except that he was there and she was safe.
He laughed tenderly and put the loose curls back from her face with a lingering, caressing touch.