OURSELVES It is Sunday.

Through my open window a living ray of April has made its way into my room.

It has transformed the faded flowers of the wallpaper and restored to newness the Turkey-red stuff which covers my dressing-table.
I dress carefully, dallying to look at myself in the glass, closely and farther away, in the fresh scent of soap.

I try to make out whether my eyes are little or big.

They are the average, no doubt, but it really seems to me that they have a tender brightness.
Then I look outside.