es still open. Staring at that little
head which he admired so much, upright and unmoving, in its dark straw
toque against the cushion, he would become suddenly alert. Kicking the
Irishman slightly in the effort, he would slip his legs down, bend across
to her in the darkness, and, conscious of a faint fragrance as of
violets, whisper huskily: "Anything I can do for you, my dear?" When she
had smiled and shaken her head, he would retreat, and after holding his
breath to see if Dolly were asleep, would restore his feet, slightly
kicking the Irishman. After one such expedition, for full ten minutes he
remained awake, wondering at her tireless immobility. For indeed she was
spending this night entranced, with the feeling that Lennan was beside
her, holding her hand in his. She seemed actually to feel the touch of
his finger against the tiny patch of her bare palm where the glove
opened. It was wonderful, this uncanny communion in the dark rushing
night--she would not have slept for worlds! Never before had she felt so
close to him, not even when he had kissed her that once under the olives;
nor even when at the concert yesterday his arm pressed hers; and his
voice whispered words she heard so thirstily. And that golden fortnight
passed and passed through her on an endless band of reminiscence. Its
memories were like flowers, such scent and warmth and colour in them; and
of all, none perhaps quite so poignant as the memory of the moment, at
the door of their carriage, when he said, so low that she just heard:
"Good-bye, my darling!"

He had never before called her that. Not even his touch on her cheek
under the olives equalled the simple treasure of that word. And above the
roar and clatter of the train, and the snoring of the Irishman, it kept
sounding in her ears, hour after dark hour. It was perhaps not
wonderful, that through all that night she never once looked the future
in the face--made no plans, took no stock of her position; just yielded
to memory, and to the half-dreamed sensation of his presence close beside
her. Whatever might come afterwards, she was his this night. Such was
the trance that gave to her the strange, soft, tireless immobility which
so moved her Uncle whenever he woke up.

In Paris they drove from station to station in a vehicle unfit for
three--'to stretch their legs'--as the Colonel said. Since he saw in his
niece no signs of flagging, no regret, his spirits were rising, and he
c