"Did _you_ wind it up?" he asked. "I thought it'd stopped--last
night."
"It's going," she said, thinking of her porridge chiefly.
"It wasn't, though," insisted Tim. He reflected a moment, evidently
perplexed. "I wound it and forgot," he added to himself, "or else it
wound itself." He went to his place and began his breakfast.
"Wound itself," mentioned Maria, and then the subject dropped.
It was Sunday morning, and everybody was dressed in Sunday things. The
excitement of the evening before, the promise of an Extra Day, the
detailed preparation--all this had disappeared. Being of yesterday, it
was no longer vital: certainly there was no necessity to consult it.
They looked forward rather than backward; the mystery of life lay ever
just in front of them, what lay behind was already done with. They had
lived it, lived it out. It was in their possession therefore, part of
themselves.
No one of the four devouring porridge round that breakfast table had
forgotten about the promise, any more than they had forgotten giving
up their time-pieces, the conversation, and all the rest of it. It was
not forgetfulness.
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