Carrie had told her mother that 'father' had gone for a walk. And strangely enough, though he was away two hours, and she knew him still far from his usual strength, Phoebe was not anxious. But she was mortally tired—as though of a sudden a long tension had been loosened, a long effort relaxed.
So she had gone upstairs to bed. But she had not begun to undress, and she sat in a low chair near the window, with the casements wide open, and the twin-peaks visible through them under a starry sky. Her head had fallen back against the chair; her hands were folded on her lap.
Then she heard Fenwick come in and his step coming up the stairs.
It paused outside her door, and her heart beat so that she could hardly bear it.
'May I come in?'
It seemed to her that he did not wait for her low reply. He came in, and shut the door. There was a bright colour in his face, and his breath came fast, as he stood beside her, with his hands on his sides.
'Are you sure you like my coming?' he said, brusquely.
She did not answer in words, but she put out her hand, and drew him towards her.
He knelt down by her, and she flung an arm round his neck, and laid her fair head on his shoulder with a long sigh.
'You are very tired?'