allalikewereredinthesunsetand,quickenedbythegreathanginglampswiththeirrepressedprimroselights,bythetramp,andthescarlet,andthepompousceremony,someladieslookedforamomentintosteamingbedroomsnearby,wherewomenwithloosehairleanedoutofwindows,wheregirls—wherechildren—(thelongmirrorsheldtheladiessuspended)butonemustfollowonemustnotblocktheway.
Clara'smoorswerefineenough.ThePhoenicianssleptundertheirpiledgreyrocksthechimneysoftheoldminespointedstarklyearlymothsblurredtheheather-bellscartwheelscouldbeheardgrindingontheroadfarbeneathandthesuckandsighingofthewavessoundedgently,persistently,forever.
ShadinghereyeswithherhandMrs.Pascoestoodinhercabbage-gardenlookingouttosea.Twosteamersandasailing-shipcrossedeachotherpassedeachotherandinthebaythegullskeptalightingonalog,risinghigh,returningagaintothelog,whilesomerodeinuponthewavesandstoodontherimofthewateruntilthemoonblanchedalltowhiteness.
Mrs.Pascoehadgoneindoorslongago.
ButtheredlightwasonthecolumnsoftheParthenon,andtheGreekwomenwhowereknittingtheirstockingsandsometimescryingtoachildtocomeandhavetheinsectspickedfromitsheadwereasjollyassand-martinsintheheat,quarrelling,scolding,sucklingtheirbabies,untiltheshipsinthePiraeusfiredtheirguns.
Thesoundspreaditselfflat,andthenwenttunnellingitswaywithfitfulexplosionsamongthechannelsoftheislands.
DarknessdropslikeaknifeoverGreece.
"Theguns?"saidBettyFlanders,halfasleep,gettingoutofbedandgoingtothewindow,whichwasdecoratedwithafringeofdarkleaves.
"Notatthisdistance,"shethought."Itisthesea."
Again,faraway,sheheardthedullsound,asifnocturnalwomenwerebeatinggreatcarpets.TherewasMortylost,andSeabrookdeadhersonsfightingfortheircountry.Butwerethechickenssafe?Wasthatsomeonemovingdownstairs?Rebeccawiththetoothache?No.Thenocturnalwomenwerebeatinggreatcarpets.Herhensshiftedslightlyontheirperches.