CHAPTER VIII.
AN AFTERGLOW Deliciously weary, every fibre in her throbbing with physical fatigue, she had nevertheless found it impossible to sleep.
The vivid memory of Duane holding her in his arms, while she gave her heart to him with her lips, left her tremulous and confused by emotions of which she yet knew little.
Toward dawn a fever of unrest drove her from her hot, crushed pillows to the cool of the open casements.

The morning was dark and very still; no breeze stirred; a few big, widely scattered stars watched her.

For a long while she stood there trying to quiet the rapid pulse and fast breathing; and at length, with an excited little laugh, she sank down among the cushions on the window-seat and lay back very still, her head, with its glossy, disordered hair, cradled in her arms.
"Is _this_ love ?" she said to herself.

"Is this what it is doing to me?
Am I never again going to sleep ?" But she could not lie still; her restless hands began groping about in the darkness, and presently the fire from a cigarette glimmered red.
She remained quiet for a few moments, elbow among the pillows, cheek on hand, watching the misty spirals float through the open window.

After a while she sat up nervously and tossed the cigarette from her.