"No, I wasn't thinking of bed. I have always hated to go to bed." She bent forward and the light from the doorway shone on her dark hair and made her bright eyes gleam, and the little breeze which blew across her to Richard brought the faint scent of perfume. Her voice seemed to have deepened overnight and she spoke with a little tremolo as though she were not quite in command of it. Richard told his story, at once calmed and further excited. When one has found in one human being both stimulation and peace, a die is cast. He was going to-morrow to Baltimore to see Faversham and arrange for his winter's work. He was going to play for him, to show him his compositions. It was already late and he could not stay. He merely wanted her to know, to think of him. Eleanor leaned a little toward him. "Oh, don't go yet," said she, her voice trembling. This, it seemed to her, was the beginning of the end. "I must," said Richard. "When will you come again?" Would he ever come, or would he leave her to watch for him, day after day, to do nothing but watch for him? He had already risen; it was possible that he might never come back. She was filled with nameless terror. Her mother-- "You look sorry," said Richard. His voice was not like hers, but high and clear. Thomasina did not guess what her kiss had done for Richard. He held out his hand and Eleanor took it and rose. "I am sorry because you are going away. I haven't any plans except to stay here. I am not sure that I can write any more and the winter looks very long. I ought to go away, but I don't know just how. I--I wish you were going to be here to play with me and read with me sometimes. I--" "Miss Thomasina is here," said Richard lightly. "She will play with you." Eleanor smiled, but she seemed to shrink within herself. Then Richard laughed and crossed the lane of light which separated them and put his arm round her shoulders and drew her back into the deep shadows. He laid his hand beneath her chin and tipped her head back against his breast. "Do you love me?" asked Richard. Eleanor yielded slowly to his arm. She felt his lips on her cheek, her hair, her eyes, at first lightly. Then he laughed and kissed her on the mouth. "Well?" said he. "Have you nothing to say?" Eleanor lifted her hand to his cheek. "Nothing," said she. In a second a sound from within doors drove them apart. Eleanor knew that her mother would not appear, but already Richard stood on the steps. He would bring her music, he said, when he could come at a less unearthly hour. This evening he had come out for a walk after they had had company. He hoped that Mrs. Bent was well. It was strange that all of yesterday's rain had not cleared the air. His mother prophesied a day of storms to-morrow and his mother always knew.