And for the first time in his life
he felt that in shutting the window he had not shut the beauty out.
The beauty of that watching, listening night had not gone away from
him by closing down the shutters. It was not lost. It stopped there.
This novel realisation was very queer and very exquisite. Regret did
not operate.
And he went along the passage, murmuring "Hm" over and over to
himself, for there seemed nothing more adequate that he could think
of. The servants had long since gone to bed; he alone was awake in the
whole big house. He moved cautiously down the long corridor towards
the green baize doors, fully aware that it was not the proper way
upstairs. He pushed them, and they swung behind him with a grunt that
repeated itself several times, lessening and shortening until it ended
in an abrupt puffing sound--and he found himself in a chilly corridor
of stone. It was very dark; the candle threw the shadow of his hand
down the gaping length in front of him. He went stealthily a few steps
further, then stopped opposite a closed door of white. For a moment he
held his breath, examining the panels by the light of the raised
candle; then turned the knob of brass, threw it wide open, and found
himself--in Mrs.
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