“Yes? Let me in.”
He moved. She slipped into the pavilion and sat down.
“How can you move without making any sound?” he asked somberly.
There had been in her movement a sort of perfection of surreptitiousness that was animal. He noticed it, and thought that she must surely be accustomed to moving with precaution lest she should be seen or heard. Rosamund could not move like that. A life story seemed to him to be faintly traced in Mrs. Clarke’s manner of entering the pavilion and of sitting down on the divan.
He stood beside her in the dark. She returned no answer to his question.
“You spoke of a journey,” he said. “The only journey I have thought of making is short enough—to Constantinople. I nearly started on it to-night.”
“Why do you want to go to Constantinople?”
He was silent.
“What would you do there?”
“Ugly things, perhaps.”