But Tressa and Yulun were already melting away between the wall and the confused rosy radiance of the lamp.
Benton, in night attire and chamber-robe belted in, fresh from his bath and still drying his curly hair on a rough towel, wandered back into his bedroom.
When his short, bright hair was dry, he lighted a cigarette, took the automatic from his dresser, examined the clip, and shoved it under his pillow.
Then he picked up the little leather-bound Testament, seated himself, and opened it. And read tranquilly while his cigarette burned.
When he was ready he turned out the ceiling light, leaving only the night lamp lighted. Then he knelt beside his bed,—a custom surviving the nursery period,—and rested his forehead against his folded hands.
Then, as he prayed, something snapped the thread of prayer as though somebody had spoken aloud in the still room; and, like one who has been suddenly interrupted, he opened his eyes and looked around and upward.
The silent shock of her presence passed presently. He got up from his knees, looking at her all the while.
“You are Yulun,” he said very calmly.
The girl flushed brightly and rested one hand on the foot of the bed.
“Do you remember in the moonlight where you walked along the hedge of white hibiscus and oleander—that night you said good-bye to Tressa in the South?”