When she had got up in the sunlighted room she had not dared to stay there looking at him, innocently asleep in the bed next to hers. How many mornings in the past, when he had stayed in her bed till morning, had she delighted to wake early and look at him before he awoke, study him in sleep beside her, so unconscious of them both or of where he was. Then she loved him so that it took all her self-­control, all her consideration and thought of him, not to bend over and kiss him, or wake him and hold him again. This morning, for all his forty-­four years, he had seemed again like a man much younger, giving himself intensely to sleep: he lay on his right side partly turned away from her, one knee bent and one leg thrust straight down, the left wrist and hand dangling loosely over the side, the other under his head so that his cheek was cushioned in his palm; his thick sandy hair was disarranged more attractively than he could ever consciously have arranged it. She had never got used to him physically, never overcome the attraction of his physical person, perhaps because he had been hers only, the only man she had ever had or wanted. Because he was asleep, she could look at him with the eyes of memory, though the night before was not forgotten. But she did not look long, lest he wake and spoil her reverie by at once becoming a stranger.