The scratch of a striking light was heard, and a bright glow
radiated from the interior of the building. The light gave birth
to dancing leaf-shadows, stem-shadows, lustrous streaks, dots,
sparkles, and threads of silver sheen of all imaginable variety
and transience. It awakened gnats, which flew towards it,
revealed shiny gossamer threads, disturbed earthworms. Stephen
gave but little attention to these phenomena, and less time. He
saw in the summer-house a strongly illuminated picture.
First, the face of his friend and preceptor Henry Knight, between
whom and himself an estrangement had arisen, not from any definite
causes beyond those of absence, increasing age, and diverging
sympathies.
Next, his bright particular star, Elfride. The face of Elfride
was more womanly than when she had called herself his, but as
clear and healthy as ever. Her plenteous twines of beautiful hair
were looking much as usual, with the exception of a slight
modification in their arrangement in deference to the changes of
fashion.
Their two foreheads were close together, almost touching, and both
were looking down. Elfride was holding her watch, Knight was
holding the light with one hand, his left arm being round her
waist. Part of the scene reached Stephen's eyes through the
horizontal bars of woodwork, which crossed their forms like the
ribs of a skeleton.
Knight's arm stole still further round the waist of Elfride.
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