"Yes. I'll turn out the light. Will you promise to go to sleep?"
"If I can. The night is so beautiful—"
With a gay little smile and gesture she turned away; but halfway down the corridor she hesitated and looked back at him.
"If you are sleepless," she called softly, "you may wake me and I'll talk to you."
There was a window at the end of the corridor. He saw her continue on past her door and stand there looking out into the garden. She was still standing there when he closed his door and went back to his chair.
The night seemed interminable; its moonlit fragrance unendurable. With sleepless eyes he gazed into the darkness, appalled at the future—fearing such nights
to come—nights like this, alone with her; and the grim battle to be renewed, inexorably renewed until that day should come—if ever it was to come—when he dared take in the name of God what Destiny had already made his own, and was now clamouring for him to take.
After a long while he rose from the window, went to his door again, opened it and looked out. And saw her still leaning against the window at the corridor's dim end.
She looked around, laughing softly as he came up: "All this—the night, the fragrance, and you, have hopelessly bewitched me. I can't sleep; I don't wish to.... But you, poor boy—you haven't even undressed. You look very tired and white, Clive. Why is it you can't sleep?"
He did not answer.