When Hermione woke it was four o'clock. She sat up on the rug, looked
down over the mountain flank to the sea, then turned and saw her husband.
He was lying with his face half buried in his folded arms.

"Maurice!" she said, softly.

"Yes," he answered, lifting his face.

"Then you weren't asleep!"

"No."

"Have you been asleep?"

"No."

She looked at her watch.

"All this time! It's four. What a disgraceful siesta! But I was really
tired after the long journey and the night."

She stood up. He followed her example and threw the rug over his arm.

"Emile will think we've deserted him and aren't going to give him any
tea."

"Yes."

They began to walk up the track towards the terrace.

"Maurice," Hermione said, presently, more thoroughly wide-awake now. "Did
you get up while I was asleep? Did you begin to move away from me, and
did I stop you, or was it a dream? I have a kind of vague
recollection--or is it only imagination?--of stretching out my hand and
saying, 'Don't leave me alone--don't leave me alone!'"

"I moved a little," he answered, after a slight pause.

"And you did stretch out your hand and murmur something."

"It was that--'don't leave me alone.'"