r him. He threw off the hood and turned once more to
the window. Consciousness had flooded back indeed. What would Sheila
have said to see him there? The unearthly beauty and stillness, and
man's small labours, garden and wall and roof-tree idle and smokeless in
the light of daybreak--there seemed to be some half-told secret between
them. What had life done with him to leave a reality so clouded? He
put on his slippers, and, gently opening the door, crept with extreme
caution up the stairs. At a long, narrow landing window he confronted
a panorama of starry night-gardens, sloping orchards; and beyond them
fields, hills, Orion, the Dogs, in the clear and cloudless darkness.

'My God, how beautiful!' a voice whispered. And a cock crowed mistily
afar. He stood staring like a child into the wintry brightness of a
pastry-cook's. Then once more he crept stealthily on. He stooped and
listened at a closed door, until he fancied that above the beating of
his own heart he could hear the breathing of the sleeper within. Then,
taking firm hold of the handle with both hands, he slowly noiselessly
turned it, and peeped in on Alice.

The moon was long past her faint shining here. The blind was down. And
yet it was not pitch dark. He stood with eyes fixed, waiting. Then he
edged softly forward and knelt down beside the bed. He could hear her
breathing now: long, low, quiet, unhastening--the miracle of life. He
could just dimly discern the darkness of her hair against the pillow.
Some long-sealed spring of tenderness seemed to rise in his heart with a
grief and an ache he had never known before. Here at least he could find
a little peace, a brief pause, however futile and stupid all his hopes
of the night had been. He leant his head on his hands on the counterpane
and refused to think. He felt a quick tremor, a startled movement, and
knew that eyes wide open with fear were striving to pierce the gloom
between them.

'There, there, dearest,' he said in a low whisper, 'it's only me, only
me.' He stroked the narrow hand and gazed into the shadowiness. Her
fingers lay quiet and passive in his, with that strange sense of
immateriality that sleep brings to the body.

'You, you!' she answered with a deep sigh. 'Oh, dearest, how you
frightened me. What is wrong? why have you come? Are you worse, dearest,
dearest?'

He kissed her hand. 'No, Alice, not worse. I couldn't sleep, that was
all.'

'Oh, and I came so utterly miserable to bed bec