"Good-night!" she called.
There was a quiver in her voice. And yet that flame of happiness had not quite died down. She said to herself:
"He doesn't want me to know. He's too proud. But he has been a little jealous, perhaps." She remembered how Sicilian he was.
"But I'll make him forget it all," she thought, eagerly. "To-morrow—to-morrow it will be all right. He's missed me, he's missed me!"
That thought was very sweet to her. It seemed to explain all things; this constraint of her husband, which had reacted upon her, this action of his in preferring to sleep outside—everything. He had always been like a boy. He was like a boy now. He could not conceal his feelings. He did not doubt her. She knew that. But he had been a little jealous about her friendship for Emile.
She undressed. When she was ready for bed she hesitated a moment. Then she put a white shawl round her shoulders and stole quickly out of the room. She came upon the terrace. The stars were waning. The gray of the dawn was in the sky towards the east. Maurice, stretched upon the rugs, with his face turned towards the terrace wall, was lying still. She went to him, bent down, and kissed him.
"I love you," she whispered—"oh, so much!"
She did not wait, but went away at once. When she was gone he put up his hand to his face. On his cheek there was a tear.
"God forgive me!" he said to himself. "God forgive me!"