The world was built up in Space and Time. Time and Space were forms of thought--ways of thinking. If there was thinking there would be a thinker. Supposing--supposing the Transcendental Ego was the Thing-in-itself? That was _his_ idea. She was content to let him have the best ones. You could keep him going for quite a long time that way before you got tired. The nicest way of all, though, was not to be yourself, but to be him; to live his exciting, adventurous, dangerous life. Then you could raise an army and free Ireland from the English, and Armenia from the Turks. You could go away to beautiful golden cities, melting in sunshine. You could sail in the China Sea; you could get into Central Africa among savage people with queer, bloody gods. You could find out all sorts of things. You were he, and at the same time you were yourself, going about with him. You loved him with a passionate, self-immolating love. There wasn't room for both of you on the raft, you sat cramped up, huddled together. Not enough hard tack. While he was sleeping you slipped off. A shark got you. It had a face like Dr. Charles. The lunatic was running after him like mad, with a revolver. You ran like mad. Morfe Bridge. When he raised his arm you jerked it up and the revolver went off into the air. The fire was between his bed and the door. It curled and broke along the floor like surf. You waded through it. You picked him up and carried him out as Sister Dora carried the corpses with the small-pox. A screw loose somewhere. A tap turned on. Your mind dribbled imbecilities. She kicked. "I won't think. I won't think about it any more!" Restlessness. It ached. It gnawed, stopping a minute, beginning again, only to be appeased by reverie, by the running tap. Restlessness. That was desire. It must be. Desire: imeros. Eros. There was the chorus in the Antigone: "Eros anikate machan, Eros os en ktaemasi pipteis." There was Swinburne: "...swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire, Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire." There was the song Minna Acroyd sang at the Sutcliffes' party. "Sigh-ing and sad for des-ire of the bee." How could anybody sing such a silly song? Through the wide open window she could smell the frost; she could hear it tingle. She put up her mouth above the bedclothes and drank down the clear, cold air. She thought with pleasure of the ice in her bath in the morning. It would break under her feet, splintering and tinkling like glass. If you kept on thinking about it you would sleep. V. Passion Week. Her mother was reading the Lessons for the Day. Mary waited till she had finished. "Mamma--what was the matter with Aunt Charlotte?" "I'm sure I don't know. Except that she was always thinking about getting married. Whatever put Aunt Charlotte in your head?" Her mother looked up from the Prayer Book as she closed it. Sweet and pretty; sweet and pretty; young almost, as she used to look, and tranquil.