'Oh, islands there are, in the midst of the deep,
Where the leaves never fade, and the skies never weep.'
"Can't we go, Jack dear? Let us be South Sea Islanders. Let's be anything where there will be no dishes to wash, or somebody to wash them for us."
"We will go when we get some money," Jack persisted hauntingly.
"Oh, hush about the money! It's so uncomplimentary of you. I shall begin to think"—
"You must not think. Thinking, after a thing is done, is no use. You must 'sleep, dear, sleep.' I shall be back before dark; but if I am not, don't think it strange. One never knows what may happen."
When he was gone Esmée was seized with a profound fit of dawdling. She sat for an hour in Jack's deep leather chair by the fire, her cloak thrown back, her feet, in the fur boots, extended to the blaze. For the first time that day she felt completely warm. She sat an hour dreaming, in perfect physical content.
Where did those words that Jack had quoted come from, she mused, and repeated them to herself, trying their sound by ear.
"Then sleep, dear, sleep!"
They gathered meaning from some fragmentary connection in her memory.
"If thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love, and all its smart—
Then sleep, dear, sleep!"