She went in, and I after her, closing and locking the door behind me, while she passed on into the morning-room. There was a small window halfway up the left-hand wall of the passage, and it looked into the study. I could see that the curtain, that was usually drawn right across the window, was only half drawn. I went and observed what she was doing. She was on her way across the room—to the fire, of course. Down she sat on the hearthrug, and doubtless was staring into the red-ember realm of castles and dreams. Then she looked round: 'Why wasn't he coming?' Then back again at the red-ember realm. What a strange thing for me, here, in Space and Time and Life, so to be observing her here, too, in Space and Time and Life. What were we to one another? Not only Rosy to me, and I to Rosy, but each one of us—each one of us humans to each other one? The thought grew broader in me, my eyes still regarding the firelight picture there, but not comprehending it. She looked round again. The movement recalled me to my ordinary self. 'Why wasn't he coming?' I felt a sudden great tenderness for the poor child waiting for me there. Oh, Rosebud, Rosebud!
Then I passed in and through the morning-room, where, on the sofa, lay her furred coat and hat, and, parting the curtains of the doorway, stepped into the study. She was looking back for me. I threw my hat into a chair; pulled off my coat; sent it after the hat, and came to her. I threw myself down behind her on the soft hearthrug, and resting my head, that was beside her, on my hand, looked into the eyes that were looking into mine.
'Rosy,' I said, 'do you believe in God?'
'Yes!' adding, her eyes in the red-ember realm, 'of course.'
'Then don't you think you're doing wrong being with me?'
'Yes.'
'And don't you think you'll be punished for it?'
'I am sure I shall,' she said.
A pause.
'Then why do you do it?'
