"Let me go then," he said.
She lifted her head from him, relinquishingly. With a little
breaking away, he moved out of bed, and was taking his clothes.
She stretched out her hand to him.
"You are so nice," she said, and he went back for a moment or
two.
Then actually he did slip into some clothes, and, looking
round quickly at her, was gone out of the room. She lay
translated again into a pale, clearer peace. As if she were a
spirit, she listened to the noise of him downstairs, as if she
were no longer of the material world.
It was half-past one. He looked at the silent kitchen,
untouched from last night, dim with the drawn blind. And he
hastened to draw up the blind, so people should know they were
not in bed any later. Well, it was his own house, it did not
matter. Hastily he put wood in the grate and made a fire. He
exulted in himself, like an adventurer on an undiscovered
island. The fire blazed up, he put on the kettle. How happy he
felt! How still and secluded the house was! There were only he
and she in the world.
But when he unbolted the door, and, half-dressed, looked out,
he felt furtive and guilty. The world was there, after all. And
he had felt so secure, as though this house were the Ark in the
flood, and all the rest was drowned. The world was there: and it
was afternoon. The morning had vanished and gone by, the day was
growing old. Where was the bright, fresh morning? He was
accused. Was the morning gone, and he had lain with blinds
drawn, let it pass by unnoticed?
He looked again round the chill, grey afternoon. And he
himself so soft and warm and glowing! There were two sprigs of
yellow jasmine in the saucer that covered the milk-jug. He
wondered who had been and left the sign. Taking the jug, he
hastily shut the door. Let the day and the daylight drop out,
let it go by unseen. He did not care. What did one day more or
less matter to him. It could fall into oblivion unspent if it
liked, this one course of daylight.
"Somebody has been and found the door locked," he said when
he went upstairs with the tray. He gave her the two sprigs of
jasmine. She laughed as she sat up in bed, childishly threading
the flowers in the breast of her nightdress. Her brown hair
stuck out like a nimbus, all fierce, round her softly glowing
face. Her dark eyes watched the tray eagerly.
"How good!" she cried, sniffing the cold air. "I'm glad you
did a lot." And she stretched out her hands eagerly for her
plate--"Come back to bed, quick--it's cold." She
rubbed her hands together sharply.