"I wonder that I did not waken when you did—that I did not hear you."
"I was very quiet."
"I awoke once in the night—and when I stirred, you patted me as if I were—"
"I was dreaming," she said softly, her face turned from him. "I was dreaming—and once I awoke in the night."
Romney felt the very core of the mystery now—his passion not to take or seize, but to give her his life. All the difference between the old and the new was in this—the difference between flesh and spirit, death and life. The thought came that this which he now knew had to do with the romances of the coming age—the passion to give one's self, not to seize something for one's own. He wanted to give her every beauty from his past and the high conceptions from the future, one by one. He had loved her spirit, her understanding mind, her presence, somehow as detached principles until this moment. Now they seemed one. All had come to the very earth of her being. He had knelt to her. The touch of her lips was the whole mystery. Nothing seemed impossible. He went to the door. Her word "to-night" was ringing through his whole being.
He sought Bamban early, to remark that they would set out for Wampli at noon.
"There is some extra baggage at the Consulate, including some provisions. We will need an extra camel and driver. In adding to the provisions in stock, arrange for four persons, Bamban, and don't spare on the little matters of extra comfort and accommodation—"
"Four persons?" said Bamban.
"Anna Erivan is going with us to Wampli."
Romney had a peculiar sense of hatred for an instant from his servant, who a moment before was inclined to prostrate himself, at least in effect. Bamban's hands were lifted, his head thrust forward from his shoulders, thin lips protruding, and a kind of dusk about his features.