Such was his elation, this beautiful night! Nearing the House of
Commons, he thought he would walk a little longer, and turned westward
to the river: On that warm evening the water, without movement at turn
of tide, was like the black, snake-smooth hair of Nature streaming out
on her couch of Earth, waiting for the caress of a divine hand. Far away
on the further; bank throbbed some huge machine, not stilled as yet. A
few stars were out in the dark sky, but no moon to invest with pallor
the gleam of the lamps. Scarcely anyone passed. Miltoun strolled along
the river wall, then crossed, and came back in front of the Mansions
where she lived. By the railing he stood still. In the sitting-room of
her little flat there was no light, but the casement window was wide
open, and the crown of white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill
still gleamed out in the darkness like a crescent moon lying on its
face. Suddenly, he saw two pale hands rise--one on either side of that
bowl, lift it, and draw it in. And he quivered, as though they had
touched him. Again those two hands came floating up; they were parted
now by darkness; the moon of flowers was gone, in its place had been set
handfuls of purple or crimson blossoms. And a puff of warm air rising
quickly out of the night drifted their scent of cloves into his face, so
that he held his breath for fear of calling out her name.
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