second visit she would have the same room? He settled that by a single glance. The curtain was not drawn, and a lamp, turned low, burned on the table beside the bed. The room was quite empty. The lamp reassured him, for the first person to enter the apartment would be sure to turn up the wick.
The window was fastened, but he worked back the fastening iron with the blade of his knife and raised himself into the room. He closed the window behind him. At once the noise of rain and the shouting of the wind faded off into a distance, and the voices of the house came more clearly to him. But he dared not stay to listen, for the water was dripping around him; he must move before a large dark spot showed on the carpet, and he saw, moreover, exactly where he could best hide. There was a heavily curtained alcove at one end of the room, and behind this shelter he hid himself. In case of a crisis the window was straight ahead of him; also, he could watch the door into the hall by pushing back the curtain.
And here he waited. How would she come? Would there be some one with her? Would she come laughing, with all the triumph of the dance bright in her face?
Behind him and about him he touched silken things, a mingling of fragrances reached him; apparently he had found the closet she used as a dressing room and every sight and scent—for a twilight came from the lamp and stole through above the curtain—spoke of Anne Withero and of her gentleness and all that nameless purity which he connected with her. He fell into a sort of sad-happy dream behind the curtain. Vaguely he heard the shrill droning of the violins die away beneath him, and the slipping of many dancing feet on a smooth floor fell to a whisper and then ceased. Voices sounded in the hall,
