There was always one most disagreeable possibility--that which, to tell the truth, he really feared--namely, that Penelope might be seized with the idea of going down to the Beach Room, of seeking out Downing there. If he heard her coming down the silent house; if he heard her opening the door which led from the hall on to the terrace, then certainly he would, and must, break his cherished rule of non-interference. But the thought that this ordeal perhaps lay before him did not add to the pleasure of his vigil. III At half-past eleven Wantley heard that which he had feared to hear, the sound of steps coming down the marble staircase. He got up from his chair, very slowly, very reluctantly. There came the murmur of low voices, and the listener's ear caught Cecily's low, even tones answering Penelope's eager, whispering voice. 'What a relief,' the voice was saying--'what a relief to get away from upstairs--from Motey next door! Here we shall be quite alone----' Then, with surprise, but no annoyance: 'Why, there's a light in Ludovic's smoking-room! But he's very discreet. He would never intrude on a dressing-gown conference.' And the voices swept on, past the door ajar, on into the short passage which led to the studio. Wantley sat down again with a very altered feeling. He was ashamed of his former fears, and at that moment begged his cousin's pardon for suspicions which he trusted she would never know he had entertained. Cecily asleep, dreaming sad dreams, had suddenly wakened to see Penelope standing by the side of her bed. The tall, ghostlike figure, clad in a long pale-grey dressing-gown, held a small lamp in her hand; and, as the girl opened her eyes, bent down and whispered, 'I could not sleep, and so I thought we might have one last talk. Not here--for we might wake Cousin Theresa; not in my room--for there Motey can hear every word--but downstairs in the studio, if you are not afraid of the cold.' And so they had made their way through the unlighted house, Cecily's smaller figure wrapped in pale blue and white, her fair hair spread over her shoulders, looking, so her companion in tender mood assured her, like one of Fra Angelico's heavenly visitants. When in the studio, Penelope put the lamp down on her painting-table and drew the girl over to the broad couch where Cecily had sat down and waited for her, just a month ago, on the afternoon of her first day at Monk's Eype. The knowledge of how happy she had then been, of how beautiful she had thought this room, now full of dim, mysterious sadness, came back to the girl with a pang of pain. She looked round with troubled eyes, but Mrs. Robinson, an elbow on her knee, her chin resting in her left hand, caught nothing of this look, for she was staring out through the dark uncurtained window, absorbed in her own thoughts. At last she slowly turned her head.