"Not yet, Ian," she said. "I want to try and tell you something. I can do it better here."
Her mouth quivered. He sat down by her on the sofa.
"Must you tell me now?" he asked, smiling. "Do you really think it matters?"
"Yes—it does matter," she answered, tremulously, pressing her folded hands against her breast. "It's something I ought to have told you before you married me—but indeed, indeed I didn't know how dreadful it was—I didn't think it would happen again."
He was puzzled a moment, then spoke, still smiling:
"I suppose you mean the sleep-walking. Well, darling, it is a bit creepy, I admit, but I shall get used to it, if you won't do it too often."
"Did I really walk?" she asked—and a look of horror was growing on her face. "Ah! I wasn't sure. No—it's not that—it is—oh, don't think me mad, Ian!"
"Tell me, dearest. I promise I won't."
"I've not been here at all since you've been living in this house. I've not seen you, my own precious husband, since I went to sleep in Switzerland, at the Hôtel du Chalet—don't you remember—when we had been that long walk up to the glacier and I was so tired?"
Stewart was exceedingly startled. He paused, and then said, very gently but very firmly: