Bliss, and other stories

s more pleased than ever before, and he, too, as he follow

t b

going to

not expecti

dy at

hat’s

to spare for everything, or as though he were taking leave of them for ever,

ight. Still, as it were, they tasted on their smiling lips th

e speak? Isn’

never realized unti

s just to be w

this.

re than

and looked at her and

l put the kettle on. A

ot lon

l, I

cushion and flung on to the sommier

d. “I long for tea as s

ng tea-and she always had delicious things to eat-little sharp sandwiches, short sweet almond fingers, and a dark, rich cake tasting of rum-but it was an interruption. He wanted it over, the table pushed away, their tw

inute it might have been painted on the blue teapot lid. And yet she couldn’t hurry. She could almost have cried: “Give me time.” She must have time in which to grow calm. She wanted time in which to free herself from all these familiar things with which she lived so vividly. For all the

hers like a conqueror, armed to the eyebrows and seeing nothing but a gay silken flutter-nor did she enter his like a queen walking soft on petals. No, they were eager, serious travellers, absorbed in understand

quite saw that. Besides, all that sort of thing was over and done with for both of them-he was thirty-one, she was thirty-they had had their experiences, and very rich and varied t

nto thick little wads and he

the breath. It’s not a sandwich from the hatter’s bag-it’s the kind of cake that might have been mentioned in

lse. I suppose it comes of living alone so long and always reading while I feed . . . my habit of looking upon food as just food . . .

bone,” s

aces or furniture or what people look like. One room is just like another to me-a place to sit and read or talk in-except,” and here he paused, smiled in a strange naive way, and said, “except t

of it–I’ve never realized this consciously before. Often when I am away from here I revisit it in spirit– wander about among yo

iece; the head to one side down-drooping, the lips parted, as thou

,” he murmured. And the

just where we left off last time.” That silence could be contained in the circle of warm, delightful fire and lamplight. How many times hadn’t they flung something into it just for the fun of watching the r

. . . “ Both of them escaped. She made up the fire and put the table back, the blue chair was wheeled forwar

the book you l

do you thi

eart beat; her cheek burned and the stupid thing was she could not discover where exactly they were or what exactly was happening. She hadn’t time to glance back. And just as she had got so far it happened again. They faltered, wavered, br

murmured. And her voice was like his wh

ue and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realize their precious friendship wa

ing very much lately whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not. Ho

sterious non-existent creatures-the young writers of to-

s sick and to realize that its only chance of recovery is by going into its symptoms-makin

d. “What a dreadful

hey really had succeeded. She turned in her chair to look at him while she answ

t became a grin. They saw themselves as two lit

out?” thought he. He was so u

ously-laying out the grounds and herself running after, puffing here a tree and there a flowery s

re made a soft flutter. What fools they were-heavy

were broken. . . . And yet he longed to break it. Not by speech. At any rate not by their ordinary maddening chatter. There was another

ard himself say: “I must be o

imply jumped out of her chair, and he heard her crying: “You mu

he handed him his hat and stick, smiling gaily. She wouldn’t give him a mome

uld they? He stood on the step and she just i

“Why don’t you go? No, don’t go. Stay. N

e of the road the huge bare willows and above them the sky big and bright with stars. But of course h

to do anything now. Was it too late? Yes, it was. A cold snatch of hateful wind bl

king of nothing-just lying there in her rage. All was over. What was over? Oh-something was. And she’d never see him again-never. After a long long time (or perhaps ten minutes) had passed in that black

urning up and ringing the bell and then saying, when she opened the door: “My dear, send me away!” She never did. As a rule she asked

ot someone with me. We are working on some

t I’d leave you some violets.” She fumbled down among the ribs of a large old umbrella. “I put them down here.

steps, the dark garden ringed with glittering ivy, the willows, the big bright sky. Again she felt the silence that was like a question. But this time she did

rcome by this gratitude. “They are really nothi

y such a sweet pressure and for so long that the poor dear’s mind positively reele

d,” whispered the oth

will. I

of the room with half-shut eyes she felt so light, so rested, as if she had

ike furious mountains” as she said; she put them

chological novel,” she dashed off, “it really is

“Good night, my frie