“How d’you know?”
“Instinct.”
“I believe you’re right,” Peter conceded; “he can find pleasure in the rest he earns by utter exhaustion; none in just volupping.”
“Good word.”
“Yes,” said Peter, and proceeded to volupp, eyes half-closed, arms hanging over the side of the chair; too luxuriously lazy even to rise for a cigarette.
Dusk and the rain joined hands beyond the streaming squares of window. The moving world was very far away from Carn Trewoofa in its greyness. From the kitchen, two voices rose and fell in sing-song fashion; not seeming to belong to Mrs. Trenner or Bessy or any human shape; merely voices, monotonous, ceaseless, chanting.
Merle had since several minutes been watching Peter intently. All of a sudden she cried: “Don’t!”
The other girl roused herself from reverie: “Don’t what?”
“That sleepy-tiger look of yours. I hate it.”