CHAPTER V
Overhead she was singing. The voice was clear and sweet and happy. He
did not know the melody; some minor refrain of broken rhythm which
seemed always to die away short of fulfillment. A haunting thing of
mystery and glamour, such mystery and glamour as had irradiated his long
and wonderful night. He heard the door open and then her light footsteps
on the stair outside. Hot-eyed and disheveled, he rose, staggering a
little at first as he hurried to greet her.
She stood poised on the lower step.
"Good-morning," he said.
She made no return to his accost other than a slow smile. "I thought you
were a dream," she murmured.
"No. I'm real enough. Are you better? Your head?"
She put a hand to the bandage. "It's sore. Otherwise I'm quite fit. I've
slept like the dead."
"I'm glad to hear it," he replied mechanically. He was drinking her in,
all the grace and loveliness and wonder of her, himself quite
unconscious of the intensity of his gaze.
She accepted the mute tribute untroubled; but there was a suggestion of
puzzlement in the frown which began to pucker her forehead.
"You're really the station-agent?" she asked with a slight emphasis upon
the adverb.
"Yes. Why not?"
"Nothing. No reason.
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