The Rainbow

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.