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clean. And in the corner by the window gable was a shelf
with some books, and some from a circulating library. She
looked. There were books about Bolshevist Russia, books of
travel, a volume about the atom and the electron, another
about the composition of the earth’s core, and the causes of
earthquakes: then a few novels: then three books on India.
So! He was a reader after all.
The sun fell on her naked limbs through the gable win-
dow. Outside she saw the dog Flossie roaming round. The
hazel-brake was misted with green, and dark-green dogs-
mercury under. It was a clear clean morning with birds
flying and triumphantly singing. If only she could stay! If
only there weren’t the other ghastly world of smoke and
iron! If only HE would make her a world.
She came downstairs, down the steep, narrow wooden
stairs. Still she would be content with this little house, if
only it were in a world of its own.
He was washed and fresh, and the fire was burning. ‘Will
you eat anything?’ he said.
’No! Only lend me a comb.’
She followed him into the scullery, and combed her hair
before the handbreadth of mirror by the back door. Then
she was ready to go.
She stood in the little front garden, looking at the dewy
flowers, the grey bed of pinks in bud already.
’I would like to have all the rest of the world disappear,’
she said, ‘and live with you here.’
’It won’t disappear,’ he said.
They went almost in silence through the lovely dewy

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