Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. He was astonished. Milky sunlight spilled on the floor. He drew her away from this thought. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. Jarvis did not leave a will. The venturous climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage beneath, to ascertain that he was not discovered; and, having satisfied himself in this particular, he stepped out more boldly. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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