He came slowly across the room, and stood looking down at her; saw her lying warm and rosy in the firelight, with the tears yet undried upon her cheeks. As she murmured in her sleep, he suddenly stooped, and fell upon one knee, and put his arms about her; it was his kiss upon her lips that woke her to some consciousness of where she was.
"Moira! my Moira!" he whispered. "I didn't hope to find you here."
Still almost with that dream upon her, she wound her arms about his neck, and nestled her head against his shoulder, as she might have done as a little child, long, long before. Still in that dream, as it seemed, and yet with a half memory of who she was and where she was, she whispered, with her lips against his:
"Let me stay with you; don't send me away. I can't—I can't bear cold looks to-night; don't speak to me. Let me stay; I want love to-night!"
It was his shame that he did not understand; his shame that he saw in her only what he might have seen in any other woman he could meet and conquer, in such an hour and under such circumstances. He wound his arms about her and held her close, and put his lips to hers. And the fire fell, and died down, and dropped to ashes.
The dawn was stealing in faint and grey, and the room was very cold. She stood against the door looking at him shamed and frightened, she shrank away from him when he would have held her; she beat him off with feeble hands.
"I didn't know, Charlie—I didn't understand," she breathed. And said it over and over many times.
When he would have touched her, she crouched away from him, and looked with wild eyes at the grey dawn that was coming in from the world outside, as though this were a new world on which she looked, and she was afraid of it. And presently fled up to her room, sobbing to herself as she went.