someone else to bear our own forgotten pain?

True sympathy is possible only when the season of one soul accords with
that of another, or else when memory, divinely tender, brings back a
vivid, scarlet hour out of grey, forgotten days, to enable us to share,
with another, his own full measure of sorrow or of joy.

Ah, but the world was awake at last! Javelin-like, across a field of
melting snow, went a flash of blue wings, and in Madame Francesca's own
garden a robin piped his cheery strain upon the topmost bough of a
dripping tree.

The woman, too, was awake, in every fibre of body and soul. Even her
finger-tips seemed sentient and alive; her heart was strangely lifted,
as though by imprisoned wings. She had no doubt of the ultimate hour,
when he would know also, yet, half-afraid, she shrank from it, as she
would not have shrunk from pain.

Madame had once remarked that civilisation must have begun not earlier
than nine in the morning, or later than noon. She had a horror of the
early breakfast, when the family, cold, but clean, gathers itself around
the board which only last night was festive and strives valiantly to be
pleasant. It was almost an axiom with her that human, friendly
conversation was not possible before nine in the morning.

So, as there was no one else to be pleased, the three women breakfasted
when and where they chose. If Rose preferred to robe herself
immaculately in white linen and have her coffee in the dining-room at
seven, she was at liberty to do so. If she wanted it in her own room, at
ten, that also was easily managed, but this was the only "movable feast"