Peter opened his eyes. Framed in the cabin doorway, poised like a
butterfly against the dark background of the room, stood Cherry.
He knew that she had been standing so for some time, for a full
minute, perhaps more.

She was looking straight at him; one hand was hanging at her side,
the other laid over her heart, as if she had involuntarily put it
there when she saw him. Her corn-coloured hair was a little
loosened; she was not smiling. She wore something limp and
transparent, of white, he thought, or pale, pale blue, like the
sky, with faint stripes making her figure look more slender even
than it was.

They looked at each other in a silence that grew more and more
awkward by great plunges. Peter had time to wish that he had kept
his eyes shut, to wish that he had smiled when he first saw her--
he could not have forced himself to smile now--to wonder how they
were ever to speak--where they were rushing--rushing--rushing--
before she turned noiselessly and vanished into the dim room.

Peter lay there, and his heart pounded. For a few minutes his
senses whirled so madly that he felt suffocated. He dared not sit
up, he dared not stir; from head to foot thrilling waves of
surprise, and even a little of terror, went over him.

Never in his life had he experienced this sort of feeling before.
He knew that he hated it, even while his whole spirit sang and
soared in the new ecstasy. A moment ago he had been a tired man,
fretted because his wife forgot to meet him; now there was
something new in the world. And rapidly all the world became only