‘Hullo!’ said Judith. ‘Haven’t we been quiet? I’ve done such a lot of work.’
‘I’ve done none. I couldn’t remember the difference between ethics and æsthetics. What rot it all is!... Now listen and we’ll hear a nightingale. He’s tuning up.’
They leaned out of the window.
The icy aching flute in the cedar called and called on two or three notes, uncertain, dissatisfied; then all at once found itself and bubbled over in rich and complicated rapture.
Jennifer was listening, tranced in her strange immobility, as if every other sense were suspended to allow her to hear aright.
She roused herself at last as Judith bent to kiss her good night.
‘Good night my—darling—darling—’ she said.
They stared at each other with tragic faces. It was too much, this happiness and beauty.
The end of the first year.