She looked at him, as he stood near the other side of the bed. His cap
was pulled low over his brow, his black overcoat was buttoned close up
to his chin. His face was strange and luminous. He was inevitable as a
supernatural being. When she had seen him, she knew. She knew there was
something fatal in the situation, and she must accept it. Yet she must
challenge him.
'How did you come up?' she asked.
'I walked up the stairs--the door was open.'
She looked at him.
'I haven't closed this door, either,' he said. She walked swiftly
across the room, and closed her door, softly, and locked it. Then she
came back.
She was wonderful, with startled eyes and flushed cheeks, and her plait
of hair rather short and thick down her back, and her long, fine white
night-dress falling to her feet.
She saw that his boots were all clayey, even his trousers were
plastered with clay. And she wondered if he had made footprints all the
way up. He was a very strange figure, standing in her bedroom, near the
tossed bed.
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