“No. I don’t think she knew.”

“I had a queer dream last night. I dreamed that he did come back.” It was out. She waited defensively, ready to shrivel if the woman laughed or tried to explain away so irrelevant a revelation, already wishing the words unspoken.

The housekeeper unfolded a clean sheet and shook it out, snowy and billowing. It settled slowly on the mattress, while a fresh whiff of lavender and linen hung in the air.

“Were you glad to see him?” she inquired gently, bending to tuck in the edges.

“Yes, I was.” Excessive gratitude overflowed in Sabrina’s heart. No ridicule here, and no opaque preoccupation, putting her off. “Only I didn’t see him exactly. I don’t know what he looks like. I only felt he was here—in the dream, I mean. And I was glad because—well, I’ve got to know him rather well, through his room, you know. You don’t really think he’d mind my going there, do you?”

There was a long silence, until she almost thought the woman had not heard, or would not answer. Then— “Did he seem to mind, in your dream?”

“No. That is—I can’t remember much about the dream, except a heavenly feeling that now everything had come right. Do you think that’s a good omen?”

The housekeeper peeled a pillow expertly and inserted it into a fresh cover.

“It’s done you a world of good, anyone can see that,” she said.

“It was nice to feel he was near,” said Sabrina seriously. “Perhaps it means that he really is coming back, and we shall hear something from him soon.” The words hung there hopefully, but there was no answer. “I seem to know him so well now—he’s turning into a sort of guardian angel. Does that sound silly to you?”

The woman straightened, the edge of the primrose blanket in her hands, the sweet smell of sun-dried linen between them, and their eyes met across Sabrina’s bed.

“I should go on thinking of him like that, if I were you,” she said, and added after a moment— “No matter what happens.”

“Thank you. I thought you’d understand.” With a dazzling smile Sabrina left her, and went on up the stairs.

She was more than a little surprised at the impulse which had led her to confide in Mrs. Pilton like that, but the woman’s quiet dignity was attractive and comforting. And she hadn’t tried to laugh it off about the dream, or changed the subject as not suitable, or questioned one’s right to dream about a man one had never seen. One had to talk to somebody once in a while, reflected Sabrina, thoughtfully mounting the stairs. If things went on like this, one would find oneself talking out loud to— There, she had missed another chance to ask Mrs. Pilton what his name was.