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She
laughed
merrily
,
and
Sibyl
smiled
,
watching
her
with
the
same
wonder
and
admiration
that
had
been
expressed
in
her
looks
more
or
less
since
the
beginning
of
our
interview
with
this
light-hearted
possessor
of
literary
fame
.
We
were
now
walking
towards
the
gate
,
preparatory
to
taking
our
departure
.
"
May
I
come
and
talk
to
you
sometimes
?
"
my
wife
said
suddenly
,
in
her
prettiest
and
most
pleading
voice
--
"
It
would
be
such
a
privilege
!
"
"
You
can
come
whenever
you
like
in
the
afternoons
,
"
--
replied
Mavis
readily
--
"
The
mornings
belong
to
a
goddess
more
dominant
even
than
Beauty
;
--
Work
!
"
"
You
never
work
at
night
?
"
I
asked
.
"
Indeed
no
!
I
never
turn
the
ordinances
of
Nature
upside
down
,
as
I
am
sure
I
should
get
the
worst
of
it
if
I
made
such
an
attempt
.
The
night
is
for
sleep
--
and
I
use
it
thankfully
for
that
blessed
purpose
.
"
"
Some
authors
can
only
write
at
night
though
,
"
I
said
.
"
Then
you
may
be
sure
they
only
produce
blurred
pictures
and
indistinct
characterization
,
"
said
Mavis
--
"
Some
I
know
there
are
,
who
invite
inspiration
through
gin
or
opium
,
as
well
as
through
the
midnight
influences
,
but
I
do
not
believe
in
such
methods
.
Morning
,
and
a
freshly
rested
brain
are
required
for
literary
labour
--
that
is
,
if
one
wants
to
write
a
book
that
will
last
for
more
than
one
'
season
.
'
"
She
accompanied
us
to
the
gate
and
stood
under
the
porch
,
her
big
dog
beside
her
,
and
the
roses
waving
high
over
her
head
.
"
At
any
rate
work
agrees
with
you
,
"
--
said
Sibyl
fixing
upon
her
a
long
,
intent
,
almost
envious
gaze
--
"
You
look
perfectly
happy
.
"
"
I
am
perfectly
happy
,
"
--
she
answered
,
smiling
--
"
I
have
nothing
in
all
the
world
to
wish
for
,
except
that
I
may
die
as
peacefully
as
I
have
lived
.
"
