flesh tingled. The gate creaked horribly as he tiptoed into the
patch of garden. He leaned over the little chasm between the level of
the garden and the window, and supported himself with a hand on the
lower sash. He pushed the blind sideways with the other hand.

"Marguerite!" in a whisper. Then louder: "Marguerite!"

She did not stir. She was in a deep sleep. Her hands hung limp. Her face
was very pale and very fatigued. She liberated the same sadness as the
sound of the mandolin and the gleam of silver in the June sky, but it
was far more poignant. At the spectacle of those weary and unconscious
features and of the soft, bodily form, George's resentment was
annihilated. He wondered at his resentment. He was aware of nothing in
himself but warm, protective love. Tenderness surged out from the
impenetrable secrecy of his heart, filled him, overflowed, and floated
in waves towards the sleeper. In the intense sadness, and in the
uncertainty of events, he was happy.

An older man might have paused, but without hesitancy George put his
foot on the window-sill, pushed down the window farther, and clambered
into the room in which he had first seen Marguerite. His hat, pressing
backward the blind, fell off and bounced its hard felt on the floor,
which at the edges was uncarpeted. The noise of the hat and the general
stir of George's infraction disturbed Marguerite, who awoke and looked
up. The melancholy which she was exhaling suddenly vanished. Her steady
composure in the alarm delighted George.

"Couldn't wake you," he murmured lightly. It was part of his Five Towns
upbringing to conceal excitement. "Saw you through the window."

"Oh! George! Was I asleep?"

Pleasure shone on her face. He deposited his stick and sprang to her. He
sat on the arm of the chair. He bent her head back and examined her
face. He sat on her knee and held her. She did not kiss; she was kissed;
he liked that. Her fatigue was adorable.

"I came here for something, and I just sat down for a second because I
was so tired, and I must have gone right off.... No! No!"

The admonishing negative was to stop him from getting up off her knee.
She was exhausted, yet she had vast resources of strength to bear him on
her knee. She was wearing her oldest frock. It was shabby. But it
exquisitely suited her then. It was the frock of her capability, of her
great labours, of her vigil, of her fatigue. It covered, but did not
hide, her beautiful contours. He t