"How can you be sure it wouldn't be my inquest and funeral I should be
'letting' you come down to?"

He replied:

"I could trust you."

A delicate night-gust charged with the scent of some plant came in at
the open window and deranged ever so slightly a glistening lock on
her forehead. G.J., peering at her, saw the masculinity melt from her
face. He saw the mysterious resurrection of the girl in her, and felt
in himself the sudden exciting outflow from her of that temperamental
fluid whose springs had been dried up since the day when she learnt
of her widowhood. She flushed. He looked away into the dark water,
as though he had profanely witnessed that which ought not to be
witnessed. Earlier in the interview she had inspired him with shyness.
He was now stirred, agitated, thrilled--overwhelmed by the effect on
her of his own words and his own voice. He was afraid of his power,
as a prophet might be afraid of his power. He had worked a miracle--a
miracle infinitely more convincing than anything that had led up to
it. The miracle had brought back the reign of reality.

"Very well," she quivered.

And there was a movement and she was gone. He glanced quickly behind
him, but the room lay black.... A transient pallor on the blackness,
and the door banged. He sat a long time, solemn, gazing at the
serrated silhouette of the town against a sky that obstinately held
the wraith of daylight, and listening to the everlasting murmur of the
invisible weir. Not a sound came from the town, not the least sound.