She saw these pictures; that is, she looked at
them and recognised their existence; but she asked no questions. They
reached her through the ticking of the busy clock beside the bed; the
ticking brought them; but it brought them back. Maria remembered
things. And chief among them were the following: That Uncle Felix had
promised everybody an Extra Day, that he had stopped all the clocks to
let it come, that this Extra Day was to be her own particular
adventure, that last night was Saturday, and that this was, therefore,
Sunday morning, very early.
And the instant she remembered these things, they were real--for her.
She accepted them, one and all, even the contradictions in them. If
this was actually an Extra Day it could not be Sunday morning too, and
_vice versa_. But yet she knew it was. Both were. The confusion was a
confusion of words only. There were too many words about.
"Why not?" expressed her attitude. The clock might tick itself to
death for all she cared. The Extra Day was her adventure and she
claimed it. But she did not bother about it.
Above all, she asked no questions. Nothing really meant anything in
particular, because everything meant everything.
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