You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You sit
down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. A dive
down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off again.
But now--it's suddenly dear to you. It's a darling little funny room.
It's yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine--my own!

"My very own for ever?"

"Yes." Their lips met.

No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense and
rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people
standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he held
her. And now he whispered, "My beauty, my little beauty!" She jumped off
her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the window-seat, with her
elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every
leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were conspirators too. So
bright was the moon that the flowers were bright as by day; the shadow of
the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like leaves and wide-open flowers, lay
across the silvery veranda. The manuka-tree, bent by the southerly winds,
was like a bird on one leg stretching out a wing.

But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad.

"We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not what,"
said the sorrowful bush.

It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always
sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving you, and
it's as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and you heard