She was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing with the dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. She could feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic mystery. And in herself in all her veins, she felt him and his child. His child was in all her veins, like a twilight.

‘For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden Treasure of hair...’

She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oakwood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body.

But Clifford’s voice went on, clapping and gurgling with unusual sounds. How extraordinary it was! How extraordinary he was, bent there over the book, queer and rapacious and civilized, with broad shoulders and no real legs! What a strange creature, with the sharp, cold inflexible will of some bird, and no warmth, no warmth at all! One of those creatures of the afterwards, that have no soul, but an extra–alert will, cold will. She shuddered a little, afraid of him. But then, the soft warm flame of life was stronger than he, and the real things were hidden from him.

The reading finished. She was startled. She looked up, and was more startled still to see Clifford watching her with pale, uncanny eyes, like hate.

‘Thank you SO much! You do read Racine beautifully!’ she said softly.

‘Almost as beautifully as you listen to him,’ he said cruelly. ‘What are you making?’ he asked.

‘I’m making a child’s dress, for Mrs Flint’s baby.’

He turned away. A child! A child! That was all her obsession.

‘After all,’ he said in a declamatory voice, ‘one gets all one wants out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and given shape are more important than disorderly emotions.

She watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. ‘Yes, I’m sure they are,’ she said.

‘The modern world has only vulgarized emotion by letting it loose. What we need is classic control.’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, thinking of him listening with vacant face to the emotional idiocy of the radio. ‘People pretend to have emotions, and they really feel nothing. I suppose that is being romantic.’

‘Exactly!’ he said.

As a matter of fact, he was tired. This evening had tired him. He would rather have been with his technical books, or his pit–manager, or listening–in to the radio.

Mrs Bolton came in with two glasses of malted milk: for Clifford, to make him sleep, and for Connie, to fatten her again. It was a regular night–cap she had introduced.

Connie was glad to go, when she had drunk her glass, and thankful she needn’t help Clifford to bed. She took his glass and put it on the tray, then took the tray, to leave it outside.

‘Goodnight Clifford! DO sleep well! The Racine gets into one like a dream. Goodnight!’