Her eyes rested on that foot, then lifted slowly until they remained fixed on his face which was shadowed by his hand as though to shield his eyes from the bracket light.
For a time she sat motionless, considering him, interested in his silence and abstraction—in the set of his shoulders, and the unconscious grace of him. Light, touching his short blond hair, made it glossy like a boy's where his hand had disarranged it above the forehead. Certainly it was very pleasant to see him again—agreeable to be with him—not exactly restful, perhaps, but distinctly agreeable—for even in the frequent silences that had crept in between them there was no invitation to repose of mind. On the contrary, she was perfectly conscious of a reserve force now awaking—of a growing sense of freshness within her; of physical renewal, of unsuspected latent vigour.
"Are you attempting to go to sleep, Mr. Quarren?" she inquired at last.
He dropped his hand, smiling: she made an instinctive move—scarcely an invitation, scarcely even perceptible. But he came over and seated himself on the arm of the lounge beside her.
"Your letters," he said, "did a lot for me."
"I wrote very few.... Did they really interest you?"
"A lot."
"How?"
"They helped that lame old gaffer, Time, to limp along toward the back door of Eternity."
"How do you mean?"