It was easy in the morning, when Demur was putting on her face, the hours pouring silky through the window panes like dreams. It was easy, and she counted minutes by the avid blush they washed in rose-gold over distant afternoon. She painted something lovely in her mirror of the by and by, Demur the ever-optimistic likeness of an early plan, whose flaxen sheen was mind to make the evening all her own. But hour after hour drained away, as is the turn, and in the narrowed light their weight Demur had hardly hoped, such sanguine breaks the day had masqueraded.
It was easy with the curtains drawn and sleepy aspirations made, but bitter had a way of rolling freely in with tides. Demur, the look of beauty on her face and all for nothing, but tommorow in the window pane is resting unaffected for a hope that she could paint a better picture than today.