She checked herself, smiled at him; then her eyes grew dark and thoughtful, and a deeper colour burned in her cheeks.
"I'll try to tell you," she said. "Last night, after I left you, I lay thinking about—love. And the—the new knowledge of myself disconcerted me.... There remained a vague sense of dismay and—humiliation—" She bent her head over her folded hands, silent until the deepening colour subsided.
Still with lowered eyes she went on, steadily enough: "My instinct was to escape—I don't know exactly
how to tell this to you, dear,—but the impulse to escape possessed me—and I felt that I must rise from the lower planes and free myself from a—a lesser passion—slip from the menace of its control—become clean again of everything that is not of the spirit.... Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"So I rose and knelt down and said my prayers.... And asked to be instructed because of my inexperience with—with these new and deep—emotions. And then I lay down, very tranquil again, leaving the burden with God.... All concern left me,—and the restless sense of shame. I turned my head on the pillow and looked out into the moonlight.... And, gently, naturally, without any sense of effort, I left my body where it lay in the moonlight, and—and found myself in the garden. Mother was there. You, also, were there; and two men with you."
His eyes never left her face; and now she looked up at him with a ghost of a smile:
"Mother spoke of the loveliness of the flowers. I heard her, but I was listening to you. Then I followed you where you were driving the two men from the grounds. I understood what had happened. After you went into the house again my mother and I saw you watching by your window. I was sorry that you were so deeply disturbed.
"Because what had occurred did not cause me any anxiety whatever."
"Do you mean," he said hoarsely, "that the probability of your name being coupled with mine and