“How late you are!” she murmured.
“Not very,” he said.
“Why, what time is it?” The murmur came plaintive and helpless.
“It’s only just gone eleven.”
That was not true; it was nearly one o’clock.
“Oh!” she said; “I thought it was later.”
And he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go.
“Can’t you sleep, my pigeon?” he said.
“No, I can’t,” she wailed.
“Never mind, Little!” He said crooning. “Never mind, my love. I’ll stop with you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better.”