For a moment transparent Time swung in a warm, dull, uncertain equilibrium. Phyllis could see Lizzie jolt heavily down the kitchen steps and bend over the garbage can. The grinding clang of the lid came like a threatening clap of cymbals. How glorious it would be if she and Lizzie, each with a garbage can and lid, could suddenly break into a ritual dance on the lawn, posturing under the maddening sunlight, clashing away their fury in a supreme dervish protest. How surprised George and Mr. Martin would be. She and Lizzie making frantic and mocking gestures, sweating the comedy out of their veins, breaking through the dull mask of polite behaviour into the great rhythms and furies of life. No longer to be tired out by little things, but to be exhausted and used by some great ecstasy. She was watching every movement life made, and thinking, as it was finished, There, that’s over, it never can happen again. But it all _would_ happen again, and how weary she was of keeping to herself her heavy burden of secret desires and pangs. Why couldn’t she tell George? But if you tried to tell George things, he went far, far away--because, probably, he too had so much that he yearned to tell. You can’t really be intimate with people who know you so well. Yet she had never been so fond of him. Here, in this garden, they seemed for an instant secure from the terror of the world. Behind these walls, these burning roses, disorderly forces could not reach them. Mr. Martin was a comforting sort of guest, he did not talk but just looked happy and was spooning up the sugar from the bottom of his glass. Drink life to the bottom of the vessel, you always find some sugar there, all the more palatable for the lemony taste. A clear compulsory ringing trilled keenly across the lawn. They listened, unwilling to move. Then there was the squeak of the screen being lifted in the pantry window. Lizzie put out her head and called. Phyllis found it impossible to stir. “George, you go. Then you can put on some dry socks.” “Nonsense,” he said, getting up. “I’ll be lots wetter than that if the storm breaks while I’m driving to the depot.” VI Phyllis could feel the whole flat of visible world gently tilting. Equilibrium, if there had been any, was gone: they had begun to slide. George, receding across the level grass, seemed to descend a downward slope. Martin was lying at ease on the ground beside her, with one knee bent and the other leg cocked across it. Perhaps that’s why he’s so fond of lying on the ground. It’s easier to keep from sliding. He seemed to have forgotten she was there and was humming to himself. She felt he had the advantage that silent people always have over the talkative. But if she could get him into conversation, she could make him realize that she was more thoughtful than she seemed. “I’m glad you didn’t finish your beans,” she began. He did not seem surprised. “I’m glad you’re glad,” he said presently. “I don’t like finishing things either.”