when at last she got to her room, she stood at the window and at first simply leaned her forehead against the glass and shivered.  What had she done?  Had she dreamed it all—­dreamed that they had stood together under those boughs in the darkness, and through their lips exchanged their hearts?  She must have dreamed it!  Dreamed that most wonderful, false dream!  And the walk home in the thunder-storm, and his arm round her, and her letters, and his letter—­dreamed it all!  And now she was awake!  From her lips came a little moan, and she sank down huddled, and stayed there ever so long, numb and chilly.  Undress—­go to bed?  Not for the world.  By the time the morning came she had got to forget that she had dreamed.  For very shame she had got to forget that; no one should see.  Her cheeks and ears and lips were burning, but her body felt icy cold.  Then—­what time she did not know at all—­she felt she must go out and sit on the stairs.  They had always been her comforters, those wide, shallow, cosey stairs.  Out and down the passage, past all their rooms—­his the last—­to the dark stairs, eerie at night, where the scent of age oozed out of the old house.  All doors below, above, were closed; it was like looking down into a well, to sit with her head leaning against the banisters.  And silent, so silent—­just those faint creakings that come from nowhere, as it might be the breathing of the house.  She put her arms round a cold banister and hugged it hard.  It hurt her, and she embraced it the harder.  The first tears of self-pity came welling up, and without warning a great sob burst out of her.  Alarmed at the sound, she smothered her mouth with her arm.  No good; they came breaking out!  A door opened; all the blood rushed to her heart and away from it, and with a little dreadful gurgle she was silent.  Some one was listening.  How long that terrible listening lasted she had no idea; then footsteps, and she was conscious that it was standing in the dark behind her.  A foot touched her back.  She gave a little gasp.  Derek’s voice whispered hoarsely: 

“What?  Who are you?”

And, below her breath, she answered:  “Nedda.”

His arms wrenched her away from the banister, his voice in her ear said: 

“Nedda, darling, Nedda!”

But despair had sunk too deep; she could only quiver and shake and try to drive sobbing out of her breath.  Then, most queer, not his words, nor the feel of his arms, comforted her—­any one could pity!—­but the smell and the roughness of his Norfolk jacket.  So he, too, had not been in bed; he, too, had been unhappy!  And, burying her face in his sleeve, she murmured: 

“Oh, Derek!  Why?”

“I didn’t want them all to see.  I can’t bear to give it away.  Nedda, come down lower and let’s love each other!”