At nine o'clock in the morning their bedroom was still dark. He
wouldn't open the shutters to let in daylight, but re-lighted the red
lamp which threw its bewitching light on the blue eiderdown, the white
sheets, a little crumpled now, and the Venus made of plaster of Paris,
who stood there rosy-red and without shame. And the red light also
fell on his little wife who nestled in her pillows with a look of
contrition, and yet so refreshed as if she had never slept so well in
all her life. There was no traffic in the street to-day for it was
Sunday, and the church-bells were calling people to the morning
service with exulting, eager voices, as if they wanted all the world
to come to church and praise Him who had created men and women.
He whispered to his little bride to shut her eyes so that he might get
up and order breakfast. She buried her head in the pillows, while he
slipped on his dressing-gown and went behind the screen to dress.
A broad radiant path of sunlight lay on the sitting-room floor; he did
not know whether it was spring or summer, autumn or winter; he only
knew that it was Sunday!
His bachelor life was receding into the background like something ugly
and dark; the sight of his little home stirred his heart with a faint
recollection of the home of his childhood, and at the same time held
out a glorious promise for the future.
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