She was in a little bedroom with bare white walls and a stone
floor and sparse old furniture. The beds--there were two--were made of
iron, enameled black and painted with bunches of gay flowers. She lay
putting off the great moment of going to the window as one puts off
opening a precious letter, gloating over it. She had no idea what time
it was; she had forgotten to wind up her watch ever since, centuries
ago, she last went to bed in Hampstead. No sounds were to be heard in
the house, so she supposed it was very early, yet she felt as if she
had slept a long while--so completely rested, so perfectly content.
She lay with her arms clasped round her head thinking how happy she
was, her lips curved upwards in a delighted smile. In bed by herself:
adorable condition. She had not been in a bed without Mellersh once now
for five whole years; and the cool roominess of it, the freedom of
one's movements, the sense of recklessness, of audacity, in giving the
blankets a pull if one wanted to, or twitching the pillows more
comfortably! It was like the discovery of an entirely new joy.
Mrs. Wilkins longed to get up and open the shutters, but where
she was was really so very delicious. She gave a sigh of contentment,
and went on lying there looking round her, taking in everything in her
room, her own little room, her very own to arrange just as she pleased
for this one blessed month, her room bought with her own savings, the
fruit of her careful denials, whose door she could bolt if she wanted
to, and nobody had the right to come in.
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