The mountain of clothes beside her stirred and heaved. John raised his head from the pillow, then sighed himself to sleep again.
Mary could just see his profile now in the dim light. Really, he was quite good-looking. People always called him "a good-looking man." And he was very patient and kind and unselfish—and had all the irritating negative virtues of the oppressed.
Oh, but one wanted some one young and swift and romantic! Some one who would laugh and quarrel and argue and make friends again. Some one who might occasionally utter an unanticipated remark.
The door opened and Violet came in with a can of hot water.
"Good morning, Violet; what's the time?"
"Quarter to seven, m'm. Shall I light the candle, and do you want the wall oven on this morning?"
"Yes, please. I'm going to bake for the Wesleyan tea."
John was waking up. He rolled over drowsily and stuck his head above the clothes, blinking at Mary with blue sleepy eyes.
His customary formula greeted her:
"What's the time, honey?"