After dinner they walked up and down the terrace in front of the hotel, like old friends who had not met for some time and had much to say to each other. Gradually, the buzzing inside subsided, the pale creatures evaporated, lights were put out; one glimmered in each corridor.
He drew Julie into a small summer house covered with vines, at the end of the garden. The head waitress brought in wine. He thanked her—the Swiss know the hotel business. He slipped his arm under Julie’s cape. She resisted, but he held her close. She could hear his heart beating violently. Then it seemed as if it stood quite still, but it commenced soon to hammer again against hers.
“I must go in,” she whispered. “They close the house early.” She put her arms around his neck, raised her face to his.
“How dark it is.”
“Yes. It’s always so before the moon comes up.” Then she slipped away. He caught her back.
“Will you give me a signal?” It was a moment of suspense.
“Yes.”
He looked up at her room; there was a candle burning in the window.
“When you put out that light, I’ll come.”
He reluctantly let her go. She went up the stairs; he saw her at her window. There was a white spirit also watching—the moon, that “Orbèd Maiden,” chaste as the sleeping women within. Only those two were living; with them it was Flood-Tide.