Peter jumps through the window.
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Dear, are you alone?" "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold threadis so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would haveseen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls,at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles,and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched withso much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-budsnew-opened on their stems. Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red.My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my littlepecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong.The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyesare tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't doany more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit downand amuse me while I rest." The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climbthe opposite wall. Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her,where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands.His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the roomis filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understandsthe ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colouron another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurshis name. "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.
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