For a while she lay very close to him, her pale face pressed against his shoulder, brown eyes remote. Neither spoke. After a long time she laid her hands on his arms, gently disengaging them, and, freeing herself, sprang to her feet. A new, lithe and lovely dignity seemed to possess her--an exquisite, graceful, indefinable something which lent a hint of splendour to her as she turned and looked down at him. Then, mischievously tender, she stooped and touched her childish mouth to his--her cheek, her throat, her hair, her lids, her hands, in turn all brushed his lips with fragrance--the very ghost of contact, the exquisite mockery of caress. "If you don't go at once," she murmured, "I'll never let you go at all. Wait--let me see if anybody is in the corridor----" She opened the door and looked out. "Not a soul," she whispered, "our reputations are still intact. Good-bye--I'll put on a fresh gown and meet you in ten minutes!... Where? Oh, anywhere--_anywhere_, Duane. The Lake. Oh, that is too far away! Wait here on the stairs for me--that isn't so far away--just sit on the stairs until I come. Do you promise? _Truly_? Oh, you angel boy!... Yes--but only one more, then--to be quite sure that you won't forget to wait on the stairs for me...." CHAPTER VIII AN AFTERGLOW Deliciously weary, every fibre in her throbbing with physical fatigue, she had nevertheless found it impossible to sleep. The vivid memory of Duane holding her in his arms, while she gave her heart to him with her lips, left her tremulous and confused by emotions of which she yet knew little. Toward dawn a fever of unrest drove her from her hot, crushed pillows to the cool of the open casements. The morning was dark and very still; no breeze stirred; a few big, widely scattered stars watched her. For a long while she stood there trying to quiet the rapid pulse and fast breathing; and at length, with an excited little laugh, she sank down among the cushions on the window-seat and lay back very still, her head, with its glossy, disordered hair, cradled in her arms. "Is _this_ love?" she said to herself. "Is this what it is doing to me? Am I never again going to sleep?" But she could not lie still; her restless hands began groping about in the darkness, and presently the fire from a cigarette glimmered red. She remained quiet for a few moments, elbow among the pillows, cheek on hand, watching the misty spirals float through the open window. After a while she sat up nervously and tossed the cigarette from her. Like a falling star the spark whirled earthward in a wide curve, glowed for a few seconds on the lawn below, and slowly died out. Then an inexplicable thing occurred. Unthinkingly she had turned over and extended her arm, searching in the darkness behind her. There came a tinkle, a vague violet perfume, and the starlight fell on her clustering hair and throat as she lifted and drained the brimming glass.