evening she lay in his hammock listening to the crickets and rather enjoying the mood of sweet melancholy that the autumn night gave her. The wind had changed from the west to the east, but she hoped the rain would not come before Dane got back.
She wished the boys would light up the den, for she liked to look into it from the outside, but when their master was away they always kept his rooms in darkness, and she had never attempted to go into them or change a single one of his ways. She had no vulgar curiosity about him. It would never have occurred to her to look over his desk or papers in his absence. She had never thought about possible relics of other women. What did those things matter? She sneered at the people who thought they did. She had never even tried the doors of his back rooms to see if they were locked, and she had never yet set her foot in those two rooms. She knew that the things she did not know about Dane would never be learned by poking about among his belongings.
She drew the possum rug up over her and drifted into speculation about the future. She was absorbed and contented at present, realizing the chance she had to work, but she wondered what she would do when her novel was finished. Of course she wanted it to come out in London. She was rather sniffy about colonial undertakings. And how would she get it to London? Would Dane be willing to go with her, and if not, what?
But she shelved that disturbing question. She went inside, closed the study door, and ate her supper by the dying fire, mooning there for some time because she found the coals good company. It was nearly midnight when she stepped out of her bedroom window to her cot. She stood by the railing a moment looking up at the faintly clouded stars before she lowered her screen. Something
