Again he sat down, watching the flashing points of her needles, until his mind gave a sudden slip—and he found himself thinking with drowsy amusement of the Sheep in ‘Alice through the Looking-glass.’
He roused himself with a violent start—to find that madame had laid down her wool, and was watching him intently. The reflection from the lamp fell on her eyes, lighting therein twin balls of orange flame.
‘What is it, madame?’
‘Nothing! I thought I heard a knocking at the street door, that is all.’
‘I heard nothing. But, then, I was nearly asleep.’
‘Best so.’ Her voice thickened. ‘Get all the sleep you can—in preparation for the morrow!’
As she snatched up her knitting, he stared at her, all drowsiness dissipated by her words. He watched her furious energy, trying the while to conceive some adequate motive for her unusual vigil and her evident wish for his own company.
Of a sudden, instinct supplied the knowledge.
Madame was waiting for something to happen.
Like vultures scenting their prey, his nerves instantly swooped down on their victim, agonising him with the refined torture of mirage. As the parched traveller feasts hollow eyes on waving date-palm and bubbling well, so Quality, with aching intensity of longing, saw a clear picture of his own familiar room. He smelt the faint odour of worn leather; heard the crackling whisper of the wood fire; felt the muzzle of his hound moist against his hand.