Even her breathing revealed her peculiar
idiosyncrasy: no actual movement on her surface was discernible. Her
breathing involved the least possible disturbance of the pink and
white contours that bulged the sheets and counterpane. Her face was
calm, expressionless, and even dull, yet wore a certain look as though
she knew so much that she had no need to maintain her position by the
least assertion. Exertion would have been a denial of her right to
exist. And exist she certainly did. The weight of her personality lent
balance to the quivering uncertainty of this mysterious dawn. Maria
remained an unassailable reality, an immovable centre round which
anything might happen, yet never end, and certainly no disaster come.
And Judy, glancing at her as she disappeared below her own sheets,
noted this fact without understanding that she did so. This was
another aspect of the thing she didn't know she knew.
"Maria's asleep," she felt, "so there's no need to get up yet. It's
all right!" In spite of the marvellous thing she knew was coming, that
is, she felt herself anchored safely to the firm reality of calm
Maria, soundly, peacefully asleep.
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