He slipped into his own
bunk and lay a moment watching the heavy drift of shadows across the
ceiling. He strove to think, but the waves of light and dark blotted
from his mind all except the feeling of her nearness, that indefinable
power keen as the fragrance of a garden, which had never quite become
disentangled from his spirit. She was there, so close. If he called,
she would answer; if she answered------
He turned to the wall, shut his eyes, and closed his mind with a Spartan
effort. His breathing came heavily, regularly, like one who slept or one
who is running. Over that sound he caught at length another light
rustling, and then the faint creak as she crossed the crazy floor. He
made his face calm--forced his breath to grow more soft and regular.
Then, as if a shadow in which there is warmth had crossed him, he knew
that she was leaning above him, close, closer; he could hear her breath.
In a rush of tenderness, he forgot her beauty of eyes and round, strong
throat, and supple body--he forgot, and was immersed, like an eagle
winging into a radiant sunset cloud, in a sense only of her being, quite
divorced from the flesh, the mysterious rare power which made her Sally
Fortune, and would not change no matter what body might contain it.
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