She was just asleep. He would
slip back before she woke. If she found him--
He looked at her again. There was something in her face--
He came nearer, no longer heeding the sounds he made. He bent over
her. Even now she did not seem to breathe.
He saw that her eyelashes were still wet, the pillow by her cheek was
wet. Her white, tear-stained face hurt him....
She was intolerably pitiful to him. He forgot everything but that and
how he had wounded her that day. And then she stirred and murmured
indistinctly a foolish name she had given him.
He forgot that they were going to part for ever. He felt nothing but a
great joy that she could stir and speak. His jealousy flashed out of
being. He dropped upon his knees.
"Dear," he whispered, "Is it all right? I ... I could not hear you
breathing. I could not hear you breathing."
She started and was awake.
"I was in the other room," said Lewisham in a voice full of
emotion. "Everything was so quiet, I was afraid--I did not know what
had happened. Dear--Ethel dear. Is it all right?"
She sat up quickly and scrutinised his face. "Oh! let me tell you,"
she wailed. "Do let me tell you. It's nothing. It's nothing. You
wouldn't hear me. You wouldn't hear me. It wasn't fair--before you had
heard me.
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