She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. You’re neither of you any longer under arrest. Yes, this was a little better. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. . For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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