Page 507 - women-in-love

breathing. Again, corresponding to the door below, there
was a door again. That would be the mother’s room. He
could hear her moving about in the candlelight. She would
be expecting her husband to come up. He looked along the
dark landing.
Then, silently, on infinitely careful feet, he went along the
passage, feeling the wall with the extreme tips of his fingers.
There was a door. He stood and listened. He could hear two
people’s breathing. It was not that. He went stealthily for-
ward. There was another door, slightly open. The room was
in darkness. Empty. Then there was the bathroom, he could
smell the soap and the heat. Then at the end another bed-
room—one soft breathing. This was she.
With an almost occult carefulness he turned the door
handle, and opened the door an inch. It creaked slightly.
Then he opened it another inch—then another. His heart
did not beat, he seemed to create a silence about himself, an
obliviousness.
He was in the room. Still the sleeper breathed softly. It
was very dark. He felt his way forward inch by inch, with
his feet and hands. He touched the bed, he could hear the
sleeper. He drew nearer, bending close as if his eyes would
disclose whatever there was. And then, very near to his face,
to his fear, he saw the round, dark head of a boy.
He recovered, turned round, saw the door ajar, a faint
light revealed. And he retreated swiftly, drew the door to
without fastening it, and passed rapidly down the passage.
At the head of the stairs he hesitated. There was still time
to flee.

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