earth； leaving behind him the hard rind of worldly knowledge and
experience。 He heard it in the huckster's cries； the noise of
carts； the calling of children。 And it was all like the hard；
shed rind； discarded。 Inside； in the softness and stillness of
the room； was the naked kernel； that palpitated in silent
activity； absorbed in reality。
Inside the room was a great steadiness； a core of living
eternity。 Only far outside； at the rim； went on the noise and
the destruction。 Here at the centre the great wheel was
motionless； centred upon itself。 Here was a poised； unflawed
stillness that was beyond time； because it remained the same；
inexhaustible； unchanging； unexhausted。
As they lay close together； plete and beyond the touch of
time or change； it was as if they were at the very centre of all
the slow wheeling of space and the rapid agitation of life；
deep； deep inside them all； at the centre where there is utter
radiance； and eternal being； and the silence absorbed in praise：
the steady core of all movements； the unawakened sleep of all
wakefulness。 They found themselves there； and they lay still； in
each other's arms； for their moment they were at the heart of
eternity； whilst time roared far off； for ever far off； towards
the rim。
Then gradually they were passed away from the supreme centre；
down the circles of praise and joy and gladness； further and
further out； towards the noise and the friction。 But their
hearts had burned and were tempered by the inner reality； they
were unalterably glad。
Gradually they began to wake up； the noises outside became
more real。 They understood and answered the call outside。 They
counted the strokes of the bell。 And when they counted midday；
they understood that it was midday； in the world； and for
themselves also。
It dawned upon her that she was hungry。 She had been getting
hungrier for a lifetime。 But even yet it was not sufficiently
real to rouse her。 A long way off she could hear the words； 〃I
am dying of hunger。〃 Yet she lay still； separate； at peace； and
the words were unuttered。 There was still another lapse。
And then； quite calmly； even a little surprised； she was in
the present； and was saying：
〃I am dying with hunger。〃
〃So am I；〃 he said calmly； as if it were of not the slightest
significance。 And they relapsed into the warm； golden stillness。
And the minutes flowed unheeded past the window outside。
Then suddenly she stirred against him。
〃My dear； I am dying of hunger；〃 she said。
It was a slight pain to him to be brought to。
〃We'll get up；〃 he said； unmoving。
And she sank her head on to him again； and they lay still；
lapsing。 Half consciously； he heard the clock chime the hour。
She did not hear。
〃Do get up；〃 she murmured at length； 〃and give me something
to eat。〃
〃Yes；〃 he said； and he put his arms round her； and she lay
with her face on him。 They were faintly astonished that they did
not move。 The minutes rustled louder at the window。
〃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……〃e back to bed； quick……it's cold。〃 She
rubbed her hands together sharply。
He ＇put off what little clothing he had on； and＇ sat beside her
in the bed。
〃You look like a lion； with your mane sticking out； and your
nose pushed over your food；〃 he said。
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 ing。 She bundled the dishes away； flew
round and tidied the room； assumed another character； and again
seated herself。 He sat thinking of his carving of Eve。 He loved
to go over his carving in his mind； dwelling on every stroke；
every line。 How he loved it now！ When he went back to his
Creation…panel again； he would finish his Eve； tender and
sparkling。 It did not satisfy him yet。 The Lord should labour
over her in a silent passion of Creation； and Adam should be
tense as if in a dream of immortality； and Eve should take form
glimmeringly； shadowily； as if the Lord must wrestle with His
own soul for her； yet she was a radiance。
〃What are you thinking about？〃 she asked。
He found it difficult to say。 His soul became shy when he
tried to municate it。
〃I was thinking my Eve was too hard and lively。〃
〃Why？〃
〃I don't know。 She should be more；〃 he made a
gesture of infinite tenderness。
There was a stillness with a little joy。 He could not tell
her any more。 Why could he not tell her any more？ She felt a
pang of disconsolate sadness。 But it was n