“Sylvia!” he remonstrated. He adjusted her so that she sat on his lap, with her face against his throat. He was recalling that other Sylvia: the Sylvia of the dining-room, of the balcony; the circumspect, sensible, comprehending Sylvia. But the discoveries he was making were not unwelcome. Folly wore for him a face of ecstasy, of beauty.
As she nestled against him, he whispered: “Is the sandman coming?”
And she responded, with her lips against his throat: “Yes—if you’ll carry me.”
Antonia was wrong. This was not the time of ashes. It was the time of flame.