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 because you would not
see me. And Mother would tell me only so very little. I didn't
even know you had been ill.' She pressed his hand between her
own. 'But this, you know, is very, very naughty--you will catch
cold, you bad thing. What would Mother say?'

'I think we mustn't tell her, dear. I couldn't help it; I felt
much I wanted to see you. I have been rather miserable.'

'Why?' she said, stroking his hand from wrist to fingertips with
one soft finger. 'You mustn't be miserable. You and me have never
done such a thing before; have we? Was it that wretched old Flu?'