She tinkled with laughter, and gladly ate her breakfast.

The morning was sunk away unseen, the afternoon was steadily
going too, and he was letting it go. One bright transit of
daylight gone by unacknowledged! There was something unmanly,
recusant in it. He could not quite reconcile himself to the
fact. He felt he ought to get up, go out quickly into the
daylight, and work or spend himself energetically in the open
air of the afternoon, retrieving what was left to him of the
day.

But he did not go. Well, one might as well be hung for a
sheep as for a lamb. If he had lost this day of his life, he had
lost it. He gave it up. He was not going to count his losses.
She didn't care. She didn't care in the least.
Then why should he? Should he be behind her in recklessness and
independence? She was superb in her indifference. He wanted to
be like her.

She took her responsibilities lightly. When she spilled her
tea on the pillow, she rubbed it carelessly with a handkerchief,
and turned over the pillow. He would have felt guilty. She did
not. And it pleased him. It pleased him very much to see how
these things did not matter to her.

When the meal was over, she wiped her mouth on her
handkerchief quickly, satisfied and happy, and settled down on
the pillow again, with her fingers in his close, strange,
fur-like hair.

The evening began to fall, the light was half alive, livid.
He hid his face against her.

"I don't like the twilight," he said.

"I love it," she answered.

He hid his face against her, who was warm and like sunlight.
She seemed to have sunlight inside her. Her heart beating seemed
like sunlight upon him. In her was a more real day than the day
could give: so warm and steady and restoring. He hid his face
against her whilst the twilight fell, whilst she lay staring out
with her unseeing dark eyes, as if she wandered forth
untrammelled in the vagueness. The vagueness gave her scope and
set her free.

To him, turned towards her heart-pulse, all was very still
and very warm and very close, like noon-tide. He was glad to
know this warm, full noon. It ripened him and took away his
responsibility, some of his conscience.

They got up when it was quite dark. She hastily twisted her
hair into a knot, and was dressed in a twinkling. Then they went
downstairs, drew to the fire, and sat in silence, saying a few
words now and then.

Her father was coming. She bundled the dishes away, flew
round and tidied