'"Here on this mole-hill,"' he quoted mockingly.

They sat down in a small gap in the gorse, where the turf was very soft,
and where the darkness seemed deeper. The night was all fragrance, cool
odour of darkness, keen, savoury scent of the downs, touched with
honeysuckle and gorse and bracken scent.

Helena turned to him, leaning her hand on his thigh.

'What day is it, Siegmund?' she asked, in a joyous, wondering tone. He
laughed, understanding, and kissed her.

'But really,' she insisted, 'I would not have believed the labels could
have fallen off everything like this.'

He laughed again. She still leaned towards him, her weight on her hand,
stopping the flow in the artery down his thigh.

'The days used to walk in procession like seven marionettes, each in
order and costume, going endlessly round.' She laughed, amused at
the idea.

'It is very strange,' she continued, 'to have the days and nights
smeared into one piece, as if the clock-hand only went round once in a
lifetime.'

'That is how it is,' he admitted, touched by her eloquence. 'You have
torn the labels off things, and they all are so different. This morning!
It does seem absurd to talk about this morning. Why should I be