She had thought the studio would keep itself;no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,the panes relieved of grime.
A plate of pears,a piano with a Persian shawl, a catstalking the picturesque amusing mousehad risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writheunder the milkman's tramp; that morning lightso coldly would delineate the scrapsof last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;that on the kitchen shelf amoong the saucersa pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own--envoy from some village in the moldings...
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;while she, jeered by the minor demons,pulled back the sheets and made the bed and founda towel to dust the table-top,and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,though not so wholly but throughout the nightshe woke sometimes to feel the daylight cominglike a relentless milkman up the stairs.
