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'
But
his
slippers
?
'
said
Neville
.
'
And
his
voice
downstairs
in
the
hall
?
And
catching
sight
of
him
when
he
does
not
see
one
?
One
waits
and
he
does
not
come
.
It
gets
later
and
later
.
He
has
forgotten
.
He
is
with
someone
else
.
He
is
faithless
,
his
love
meant
nothing
.
Oh
,
then
the
agony
--
then
the
intolerable
despair
!
And
then
the
door
opens
.
He
is
here
.
'
'
Ripping
gold
,
I
say
to
him
,
"
Come
"
,
'
said
Jinny
.
'
And
he
comes
;
he
crosses
the
room
to
where
I
sit
,
with
my
dress
like
a
veil
billowing
round
me
on
the
gilt
chair
.
Our
hands
touch
,
our
bodies
burst
into
fire
.
The
chair
,
the
cup
,
the
table
--
nothing
remains
unlit
.
All
quivers
,
all
kindles
,
all
burns
clear
.
'
(
'
Look
,
Rhoda
,
'
said
Louis
,
'
they
have
become
nocturnal
,
rapt
.
Their
eyes
are
like
moths
'
wings
moving
so
quickly
that
they
do
not
seem
to
move
at
all
.
'
'
Horns
and
trumpets
,
'
said
Rhoda
,
'
ring
out
.
Leaves
unfold
;
the
stags
blare
in
the
thicket
.
There
is
a
dancing
and
a
drumming
,
like
the
dancing
and
the
drumming
of
naked
men
with
assegais
.
'
'
Like
the
dance
of
savages
,
'
said
Louis
,
'
round
the
camp-fire
.
They
are
savage
;
they
are
ruthless
.
They
dance
in
a
circle
,
flapping
bladders
.
The
flames
leap
over
their
painted
faces
,
over
the
leopard
skins
and
the
bleeding
limbs
which
they
have
torn
from
the
living
body
.
'
'
The
flames
of
the
festival
rise
high
,
'
said
Rhoda
.
'
The
great
procession
passes
,
flinging
green
boughs
and
flowering
branches
.
Their
horns
spill
blue
smoke
;
their
skins
are
dappled
red
and
yellow
in
the
torchlight
.
They
throw
violets
.
They
deck
the
beloved
with
garlands
and
with
laurel
leaves
,
there
on
the
ring
of
turf
where
the
steep-backed
hills
come
down
.
The
procession
passes
.
And
while
it
passes
,
Louis
,
we
are
aware
of
downfalling
,
we
forebode
decay
.
The
shadow
slants
.
We
who
are
conspirators
,
withdrawn
together
to
lean
over
some
cold
urn
,
note
how
the
purple
flame
flows
downwards
.
'
'D
eath
is
woven
in
with
the
violets
,
'
said
Louis
.
'D
eath
and
again
death
.
'
)
'
How
proudly
we
sit
here
,
'
said
Jinny
,
'
we
who
are
not
yet
twenty-five
!
Outside
the
trees
flower
;
outside
the
women
linger
;
outside
the
cabs
swerve
and
sweep
.
Emerged
from
the
tentative
ways
,
the
obscurities
and
dazzle
of
youth
,
we
look
straight
in
front
of
us
,
ready
for
what
may
come
(
the
door
opens
,
the
door
keeps
on
opening
)
.
All
is
real
;
all
is
firm
without
shadow
or
illusion
.
Beauty
rides
our
brows
.
There
is
mine
,
there
is
Susan
's
.
Our
flesh
is
firm
and
cool
.
Our
differences
are
clear-cut
as
the
shadows
of
rocks
in
full
sunlight
.
Beside
us
lie
crisp
rolls
,
yellow-glazed
and
hard
;
the
table-cloth
is
white
;
and
our
hands
lie
half
curled
,
ready
to
contract
.
Days
and
days
are
to
come
;
winter
days
,
summer
days
;
we
have
scarcely
broken
into
our
hoard
.
Now
the
fruit
is
swollen
beneath
the
leaf
.
The
room
is
golden
,
and
I
say
to
him
,
"
Come
"
.
'
