THE YELLOW DOVE
sleepy. I had eight hours last night. I’m going to watch.”
He bent over her and gently made her lie down. “I will talk to you no more. You must go to sleep.”
She sighed and stretched herself out while he covered her with his coat. Then he put a fresh log on the fire and sat beside her again. In a moment he heard her voice.
“I hope you don’t mind my telling you, Cyril, that I love you a great deal.”
“Not in the least,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t mind listenin’ while you said it all night. But”
“There. You’re going to insist on my sleeping again!”
“Won’t you?”
“I don’t seem to feel as if I could ever sleep again. You’re so cool, so calm, Cyril. How can you be?”
“No bally use gettin’ excited. Here we are snug as two bugs in a rug. We’ll slip through them some way.”
“But where will we go?”
He smiled.
“I have a notion of goin’ to England.” His kind of quiet humor always put her on her mettle.
“To England—?” She started up.
“There won’t be much chance of your doin’ anythin’ tomorrow if you don’t get your sleep,” he insisted gently. “Do what I ask, Doris. Sleep you must.”
“I’ll try. Good night, Cyril.”
“Good night.” He kissed her on the forehead and drew his jacket over her again, then sat beside her, her hand in his, watching. Gradually her nerves grew quiet and weariness mastered her. He waited until
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