The red brick floor was heaving gently, Domini thought.  She found herself wondering how the cane chair by the small wardrobe kept its footing, and why the cracked china basin in the iron washstand, painted bright yellow, did not stir and rattle.  Her dressing-bag was open.  She could see the silver backs and tops of the brushes and bottles in it gleaming.  They made her think suddenly of England.  She had no idea why.  But it was too warm for England.  There, in the autumn time, an open window would let in a cold air, probably a biting blast.  The wooden shutter would be shaking.  There would be, perhaps, a sound of rain.  And Domini found herself vaguely pitying England and the people mewed up in it for the winter.  Yet how many winters she had spent there, dreaming of liberty and doing dreary things—­things without savour, without meaning, without salvation for brain or soul.  Her mind was still dulled to a certain extent by the narcotic she had taken.  She was a strong and active woman, with long limbs and well-knit muscles, a clever fencer, a tireless swimmer, a fine horsewoman.  But to-night she felt almost neurotic, like one of the weak or dissipated sisterhood for whom “rest cures” are invented, and by whom bland doctors live.  That heaving red floor continually emphasised for her her present feebleness.  She hated feebleness.  So she blew out the candle and, with misplaced energy, strove resolutely to sleep.  Possibly her resolution defeated its object.  She continued in a condition of dull and heavy wakefulness till the darkness became intolerable to her.  In it she saw perpetually the long procession of the pale recruits winding up the hill of Addouna with their bags and bundles, like spectres on a way of dreams.  Finally she resolved to accept a sleepless night.  She lit her candle again and saw that the brick floor was no longer heaving.  Two of the books that she called her “bed-books” lay within easy reach of her hand.  One was Newman’s Dream of Gerontius, the other a volume of the Badminton Library.  She chose the former and began to read.

Towards two o’clock she heard a long-continued rustling.  At first she supposed that her tired brain was still playing her tricks.  But the rustling continued and grew louder.  It sounded like a noise coming from something very wide, and spread out as a veil over an immense surface.  She got up, walked across the floor to the open window and unfastened the persiennes.  Heavy rain was falling.  The night was very black, and smelt rich and damp, as if it held in its arms strange offerings—­a merchandise altogether foreign, tropical and alluring.  As she stood there, face to face with a wonder that she could not see, Domini forgot Newman.  She felt the brave companionship of mystery.  In it she divined the beating pulses, the hot, surging blood of freedom.