Her room was full of warm splashes of colour. The bedspread and carpet, though faded, glowed with sudden reds and gentle browns—faded red roses were on the wall. The window was low, so that when she turned on the pillow she could look straight out of it at a huddled mass of woods. It was uncurtained, and the stars flashed through the thick panes.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in"—and Nigel came in softly.
"Hullo, old man."
"I want to speak to you, Janey."
"And I want to speak to you. Come and sit on the bed."
"I—I want to say I'm sorry I cried this evening."
"Oh, don't!" gasped Janet.
"It's a habit one gets into in prison—crying about little things. Prison is made up of little things and crying about 'em—that's why it's so hellish."
Her hand groped on the coverlet for his.