"'Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.'"
Between the lovely lines she could hear Mamma say, "They all scamp their
work. You would require a resident carpenter and a resident glazier--"
And Mrs. Farmer's soft drawl spinning out the theme: "And a resident
plumber. Yes, Mrs. Olivier, you really wou-ould."
Mr. and Mrs. Farmer had called and stayed to tea. Across the room you
could see his close, hatchet nose and straggly beard. Every now and then
his small, greenish eyes lifted and looked at you.
Impossible that you had ever enjoyed going to Mrs. Farmer's to see the
baby. It was like something that had happened to somebody else, a long
time ago. Mrs. Farmer was always having babies, and always asking you to
go and see them. She couldn't understand that as you grew older you left
off caring about babies.
"'--We are such stuff
As dreams are made of--'"
"The Bishop--Confirmation--opportunity."
Even Mamma owned that Mr. Farmer never knew when it was time to go.
"'As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep--'"
The universe is nothing but the spectacle of the dreams of God. Or was it
the thoughts of God?
"Confirmation--Parish Church--Bishop--"
Confirmation. She had seen a Confirmation once, years ago. Girls in white
dresses and long white veils, like brides, shining behind the square
black windows of the broughams. Dora and Effie Draper. Effie leaned
forward. Her pretty, piercing face looked out through the black pane, not
seeing anything, trying greedily to be seen. Big boys and girls knelt
down in rows before the Bishop, and his sleeves went flapping up and down
over them like bolsters in the wind.
Mr. Farmer was looking at her again, as if he had an idea in his head.