Christine had fallen asleep. Her hands lay folded upon her work and
her face was still lifted to the black ridge of roof where the sun had
vanished. There was enchantment about her sleep, as though in the very
midst of them she had begun to live a new, mysterious life of her own.
She had been the shadowy onlooker. She became the central figure among
them.
Mr. Ricardo rose noiselessly. He looked at no one. He passed them
like a ghost. They heard him creeping down the stairs and his
hurrying, unequal footsteps on the empty street. Cosgrave and Connie
Edwards nodded to one another and took hands and were gone. Francey,
too, slipped to her feet. She gathered up her hat and coat, her
silence effortless. She did not so much as glance at Robert, but at
the head of the steep, ladder-like stairs he overtook her.
"Francey--listen----"
With one foot on the lower step, her back against the wall, she waited
for him. It was too dark for them to see each other clearly. They
were shadows to one another. They spoke in whispers, as though they
were afraid of waking something more than the sleeper in the room
behind them. He could not have told how he knew that her face was wet.
"I wanted to say--I don't know why I behaved like that. I'm not
usually--nervy--uncontrolled. I don't think I've ever lost my temper
before. I've had so little to do with people. Perhaps that's it.
I've gone my own way alone----"
"And now that our ways have crossed," she began with a sad irony.
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