Eve sat on her bed's edge, swathed in a lilac silk kimona -- delicate relic of school days. Her bandaged feet, crossed, dangled above the rag-rug on the floor; her slim, tanned fingers were interlaced over the book on her lap. Near the door stood State Trooper Stormont, spurred, booted, trig and trim, an undecided and flushed young man, fumbling irresolutely with the purple cord on his campaign-hat. The book on Eve's knees -- another relic of the past -- was _Sigurd the Volsung._ Stormont had been reading to her -- they having found, after the half shy tentatives of new friends, a point d'appui in literature. And the girl, admitting a passion for the poets, invited him to inspect the bookcase of unpainted pine which Clinch had built into her bedroom wall. Here it was he discovered mutual friends among the nobler Victorians -- surprised to discover _Sigurd_ there -- and, carrying it to her bedside, looked leisurely through the half forgotten pages. "Would you read a little?" she ventured. He blushed but did his best. His was an agreeable, boyish voice, betraying taste and understanding. Time passed quickly -- not so much in the reading but in the conversations intervening. And now, made uneasy by chance consultation with his wrist-watch, and being rather a conscientious young man, he had risen and had informed Eve that she ought to go to sleep. And she had denounced the idea, almost fretfully. "Even if you go I shan't sleep till daddy comes," she said. "Of course," she added, smiling at him out of gentian-blue eyes, "if _you_ are sleepy I shouldn't dream of asking you to stay." "I'm not intending to sleep." "What are you going to do?" "Take a chair on the landing outside your door." "What!" "Certainly. What did you expect me to do, Eve?" "Go to bed, of course. The beds in the guest rooms are all made up." "Your father didn't expect me to do that," he said, smiling. "I'm not afraid, as long as you're in the house," she said. She looked up at him again, wistfully. Perhaps he was restless, bored, sitting there beside her half the day, and, already, half the night. Men of that kind -- active, nervous young men accustomed to the open, can't stand caging. "I want you to go out and get some fresh air," she said. "It's a wonderful night. Go and walk a while. And -- if you feel like -- coming back to me----" "Will you sleep?" "No, I'll wait for you." Her words were natural and direct, but in their simplicity there seemed a delicate sweetness that stirred him. "I'll come back to you," he said. Then, in his response, the girl in her turn became aware of something beside the simpler words -- a vague charm about them that faintly haunted her after he had gone away down the stairs.