Here he came to a standstill with a low exclamation of surprise.
On his cane deck-lounge Evelyn lay fast asleep, her face so turned upon the cushion that its delicate profile showed clear as a cameo against a background of dull blue. Her white dinner dress gleamed ghostly in the dusk of morning. One bronze slipper had fallen off; and one bare arm hung limply over the chair's edge, the fingers curled softly upwards. A slender chain bangle, with a turquoise pendant, had almost slipped over her hand.
Desmond drew nearer with softened tread, and stood looking down upon her, a world of tenderness in his eyes;—tenderness touched with the reverence a finely tempered man is apt to feel in the presence of a child or woman asleep. For by some mysterious process sleep sanctifies a face; perhaps because it is half brother to death.
Evelyn's face was white as her dress, save for the coral tint of her lips. Their downward droop, the red line along her eyelids, and the moist handkerchief clutched in her right hand, were more heart-stirring than tears.
He knelt down beside her and lightly caressed her hair.
"Ladybird," he said softly, "time to wake up."
His touch brought her back to life with an indrawn breath like a sob; and at sight of him her arms went round his neck.
"Theo, darling," she whispered, drawing his head down close to hers. "I—was dreaming—that you were gone. I suppose you are going very soon now?"
"Yes; in about an hour."