"Yes," said Barbara. "It's going to clear up."
It could hardly be called actual sunlight, but there certainly was a touch of pale autumn gold growing brighter about them as they stood.
Harding was listening to the monotonous tick—tick—tick—tick.
"I remember a man in some book," he said, "who didn't like to hear a clock going—always counting out time in small change."
"Oh, but that's a worrying idea! I should hate to think of my life doled out to me like that!"
"I'm afraid you must," he answered, with his little rough-edged laugh. "It would be very delightful to take one's life in a lump, but how are you going to have more than a moment in a moment? There are plenty of us always trying to do it. If you could find out the way——"
"How, trying?" said Barbara.
"Trying to keep the past and grasp the future," Harding replied. "Working and waiting for some moment which is to hold at least half a lifetime—when it comes! Oh, I quite agree with you; I should like a feast, and I am fed by spoonfuls!"
She looked up at him a little doubtfully, and the clock went on ticking. "I always thought it was like a heart beating," she said, swerving from the idea he had presented as if it were distasteful. "Now!"