are slowly climbing the steep and methodical way. There is something
human in the stairway; in the inevitable shapes of its spiral and its
steps cut out of the quick, in the rhythmic repetition of its steps. A
round skylight pierces the sloping roof up there, and it is the only
light for this part of the people's house, this poor internal city.
The darkness which runs down the walls of the well, whence we are
striving to emerge step by step, conceals our laborious climb towards
that gap of daylight. Shadowed and secret as we are, it seems to me
that we are mounting to heaven.

Oppressed by a common languor, we at last sat down side by side on a
step. There is no sound in the building under the one round window
bending over us. We lean on each other because of the stair's
narrowness. Her warmth enters into me; I feel myself agitated by that
obscure light which radiates from her. I share with her the heat of
her body and her thought itself. The darkness deepens round us.
Hardly can I see the crouching girl there, warm and hollowed like a
nest.

I call her by her name, very quietly, and it is as though I made a loud
avowal! She turns, and it seems that this is the first time I have
seen her naked face. "Kiss me," she says; and without speaking we
stammer, and murmur, and laugh.

* * * * * *

Together we are looking at a little square piece of paper. I found it
on the seat which the rose-tree overhangs on the edge of the downward
lane. Carefully folded, it had a forgotten look, and it was waiting
there, detained for a moment by its timorous weight. A few lines of