“Are you ill? What is it?”
“Ill? No.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “I fancy I was close to the edge of sleep.” Some colour came back into his face; he stood smiling now, the significance of her presence dawning on him.
“Did you really come?” he asked. “This isn't a very lovely but impalpable astral vision, is it?”
“It's horridly imprudent, isn't it?” she murmured, still considering the rather drawn and pallid face of the man before her. “I came out of pure curiosity, Mr. Siward.”
She glanced about her. He moved a big bunch of hothouse roses so she could pass, and she settled down lightly on the edge of the window-seat. When he had piled some big downy cushions behind her back, she made a quick gesture of invitation.
“I have only a moment,” she said, as he seated himself beside her. “Part of my curiosity is satisfied in finding you here; I didn't suppose you so faithful.”
“I can be fairly faithful. What else are you curious about?”
“You said you had something important—”
“—To tell you? So I did. That was bribery, perjury, false pretences, robbery under arms, anything you will! I only wanted you to come.”
“That is a shameful confession!” she said; but her smile was gay enough, and she noiselessly shook out her fluffy skirts and settled herself a trifle more deeply among the pillows.