Perspective has abolished doubt.
But one of the doors was shut,
And behind it the subtlest lutanist
Was shaking a broken necklace of tinkling notes,
And somehow it was feminine music.
Strange exultant fear of desire, when hearts
Beat brokenly. He laid his hand on the latch—
And woke among his familiar books and pictures;
Real as his dream? He wondered. Ten to nine.
Thursday. Wasn’t he lunching at his aunt’s?