out further, I could take in all his golden bounty and all
his light?

I withdraw hastily from the springtime window because when a gentle
flame ran over my wrist I became aware of lack of dignity: my untidy
hair, the dust on me, the disorderly room.

Since the sun lives, since I long for it, love must exist. I shall find
the proof of it. Quickly, my Sunday frock, order about me, flowers....

Keep it far away from me. I do not feel I am ready....

V

Trude's twenty-fourth birthday. Twenty-four candles around the monster
of a cake. Trude announces that Edda, the youngest of us, is to light
the candles when we're ready for the toasts and the dessert.

I lent my vases, my old red-flowered armchair, and my draperies. This
morning when the preparations were completed and their voices in triple
unison leapt to me: "Come and look!" I was in the room in three bounds
like an answering echo.

It really looked nice. Who would have recognized Clara's impossible
room? Heavy ropes of foliage dotted with roses festooned the walls, my
beautiful blue stuff entirely hid the toilet-table, flowers covered the
mantelpiece and starred the corners of the mirror; and the table covered
with a white cloth was gay with pyramids of fruit.

Now the guests are all here except Markowitch, who said beforehand he
would be late. "I am not going to seat you," Clara cries to them above
the rising hubbub. "Choose your own places." And she turns her back to
give the last touches to the table. Her heavy braided knot hangs low on
the nape of her neck. In spite of the two spreading wings of her skirt
at her waist line she looks thinner than ever in her greenish dress.
Someone glides up behind her, a pink arm for an instant twines about her
waist. "Clara, can I help?" She turns round. Dahlia.

Dahlia is not an ordinary creature; she is no one; she is _the young
girl_. But that really is saying nothing. Juliet and Miranda are dead;
our times are not made for a creature of the dawn who is supposed to be
finer than the promise of herself, but who is already herself; who is
supposed not to be ignorant, who is pure and who, in order to love, does
not await love.

Dahlia comes of another age; she comes from the country of fjords and
legends. Her father was exiled, she wanted to go with him, they had no
money; they made almost the whole journey on foot. One evening when
their heavy limbs would carry them no further, they were stranded in a
squalid quart