She was going, alone, farther still.

As he stood and watched her closed eyes,--the nice, easily pleased eyes,--it was they themselves, closed on him and all prosaic things and pleasures, which filled him most strangely with that sense of her loneliness, weirdly enough, _hers_, not his.

He was not thinking of himself but of her.

He wanted to withdraw her from her loneliness, to bring her back.
He knelt down carefully, making no sound, stealthily, not removing his eyes from her strange, aloof face.

He slowly dared to close his hand on hers which lay outside the coverlet.