She gave a sudden cry as if stung with pain, and started away from the window. She threw herself down on the couch, burying her face in the pillows--he could see through the dim room the whiteness of her arms. She was breathing convulsively; but she was not sobbing.
He remained beside the open window. He, too, was not breathing so regularly as he had breathed a short time before.
He heard the sigh that came from her as she raised her head from the pillow.
"I wonder if you ever really loved me, Bertie."
"I wonder if you ever loved me; and I wonder if I ever loved you until this moment."
There was a silence. Outside there was a little whisper of moving wings, but no voice of bird.
There was a silence, and out of it a low voice cried softly, softly:
"Bertie, Bertie, my love, come to me."