"It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters like ice. II Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter to pay his morning's work with a holiday. "Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" Peter jumps through the window. "Dear, are you alone?" "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have seen 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 with so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds new-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 little pecking 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 eyes are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down and amuse me while I rest." The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb the 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 room is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs his name. "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. III "Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone."