It was an age of compact artificial nourishment, and such a provision had none of the unwieldy suggestion it would have had in the nineteenth century.
"But—until our house," she asked—"until it was ready, where should we sleep?"
"It is summer."
"But. . . . What do you mean?"
"There was a time when there were no houses in the world; when all mankind slept always in the open air."
"But for us! The emptiness! No walls—no ceiling!"
"Dear," he said, "in London you have many beautiful ceilings. Artists paint them and stud them with lights. But I have seen a ceiling more beautiful than any in London. . . ."
"But where?"
"It is the ceiling under which we two would be alone. . ."
"You mean. . . .?"
"Dear," he said, "it is something the world has forgotten. It is Heaven and all the host of stars."
Each time they talked the thing seemed more possible and more desirable to them. In a week or so it was quite possible. Another week, and it was the inevitable thing they had to do. A
