"Good-night."
She still gazed into the lamp-lit darkness beyond him, her hand limp in his; and he saw her blue eyes, heavy lidded and dreamy, and the strand of hair curling gold against her cheek.
When he kissed her, she dropped her head, covering her face with her forearm, not otherwise stirring—as though the magic pageant of her fate which had been gathering for two weeks had begun to move at last, passing vision-like through her mind with a muffled uproar—sweeping on, on, brilliant, disarrayed, timed by the deafening beating of her heart.
Dully she realised that it was here at last—all that she had dreaded—if dread be partly made of hope!
"Are you crying?" he said, unsteadily.
She lifted her face from her arm, like a dazed child awaking.
"You darling," he whispered.
Eyes remote, she stood watching unseen things in the darkness beyond him.
"Must I go, Jacqueline?"