Everything else they had ever known had been only an interruption. This had always been happening, underneath. It was the unknown music for which their poem had been written. They were quit of the pinch of Time, the facetious nudge of Custom. Quietness was in them, satient like fresh water in a thirsty throat. Here was the fulfilment men plot and swink for: and how different from crude anticipation. What could there be now but pity and kindness? Here was triumph: Man, the experimenting artist, had created fantasy above the grasp of his audience, Nature. Like any true artist, he must always play a little above his audience’s head. “Now I’m going to tell you the truth,” he said happily, and waited a moment for the luxury of her voice. She was silent. He turned to look; her face was anxious. “Why is it,” he said gently, “that when you announce you’re going to tell the truth, people always expect something disagreeable?” Then he knew that the sand was chill and gritty. A breeze was blowing, the light was dim and meagre. This was not the glad forgiving sun but the cold and glassy moon. “No, no!” she cried. “You must never tell the truth in a dream. If you do ... it happens.” “But this was a lovely truth,” he began. A window snapped into brightness beside him, just above his head. Phyllis was looking from the pantry. “George! What on earth are you muttering about out there? Come in and help me cut sandwiches.” XVII He was startled to find Phyllis at work in her nightgown. Another hallucination, perhaps, he thought sardonically. Everything seems to burlesque everything else. She had thrown aside her blue quilted wrapper and was busy slicing and spreading. The table was crowded with bread, ham, beef, lettuce, mustard, jam, and cheese. The Picnic. George had forgotten the menace of the Picnic. It struck him as pathetic to see her valiantly preparing the details of this festival which was already doomed and damned. She was chopping off little brown corners of crust. Wasteful, as usual; besides, the crust is the best part. He managed not to say so, remembering that he had made the remark every time he had ever seen her cut sandwiches. The lace yoke at her neck had two tiny buds of blue ribbon stitched in it. There was something pitiably nuptial about them. How soft and young she was in her flimsy robe. Her eyes were smudged with fatigue. How beautiful she would have looked to any other man. “My dear child, cutting sandwiches in your best nightgown.” “I haven’t anything better to do in it, have I?” “Yes, you have. Go to bed in it.” He held the wrapper for her. “Put this on. I’ll open the door. Whew, it’s hot in here. I’ll finish all this for you.” The blade of the long carving knife continued, small definite crunches. “You can have your sardines. I found a box in the pantry. There isn’t any key for them, you’ll have to use the can opener.”