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eight years ago?”

      “Yes.”

      “And when did you leave him?”

      “Three years ago.”

      “Five years! Did you love him when you married him?”

      She was silent for some time; then she said slowly:

      “I thought I did—more or less. I didn't think much about it. And he wanted me. I was very prudish then.”

      “And you sort of walked into it without thinking?”

      “Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life.”

      “Somnambule? But—when did you wake up?”

      “I don't know that I ever did, or ever have—since I was a child.”

      “You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! And he didn't wake you?”

      “No; he never got there,” she replied, in a monotone.

      The brown birds dashed over the hedges where the rose-hips stood naked and scarlet.

      “Got where?” he asked.

      “At me. He never really mattered to me.”

      The afternoon was so gently warm and dim. Red roofs of the cottages burned among the blue haze. He loved the day. He could feel, but he could not understand, what Clara was saying.

      “But why did you leave him? Was he horrid to you?”

      She shuddered lightly.

      “He—he sort of degraded me. He wanted to bully me because he hadn't got me. And then I felt as if I wanted to run, as if I was fastened and bound up. And he seemed dirty.”

      “I see.”

      He did not at all see.

      “And was he always dirty?” he asked.

      “A bit,” she replied slowly. “And then he seemed as if he couldn't get AT me, really. And then he got brutal—he WAS brutal!”

      “And why did you leave him finally?”

      “Because—because he was unfaithful to me—”

      They were both silent for some time. Her hand lay on the gate-post as she balanced. He put his own over it. His heart beat quickly.

      “But did you—were you ever—did you ever give him a chance?”

      “Chance? How?”

      “To come near to you.”

      “I married him—and I was willing—”

      They both strove to keep their voices steady.

      “I believe he loves you,” he said.

      “It looks like it,” she replied.

      He wanted to take his hand away, and could not. She saved him by removing her own. After a silence, he began again:

      “Did you leave him out of count all along?”

      “He left me,” she said.

      “And I suppose he couldn't MAKE himself mean everything to you?”

      “He tried to bully me into it.”

      But the conversation had got them both out of their depth. Suddenly Paul jumped down.

      “Come on,” he said. “Let's go and get some tea.”

      They found a cottage, where they sat in the cold parlour. She poured out his tea. She was very quiet. He felt she had withdrawn again from him. After tea, she stared broodingly into her tea-cup, twisting her wedding ring all the time. In her abstraction she took the ring off her finger, stood it up, and spun it upon the table. The gold became a diaphanous, glittering globe. It fell, and the ring was quivering upon the table. She spun it again and again. Paul watched, fascinated.

      But she was a married woman, and he believed in simple friendship. And he considered that he was perfectly honourable with regard to her. It was only a friendship between man and woman, such as any civilised persons might have.

      He was like so many young men of his own age. Sex had become so complicated in him that he would have denied that he ever could want Clara or Miriam or any woman whom he knew. Sex desire was a sort of detached thing, that did not belong to a woman. He loved Miriam with his soul. He grew warm at the thought of Clara, he battled with her, he knew the curves of her breast and shoulders as if they had been moulded inside him; and yet he did not positively desire her. He would have denied it for ever. He believed himself really bound to Miriam. If ever he should marry, some time in the far future, it would be his duty to marry Miriam. That he gave Clara to understand, and she said nothing, but left him to his courses. He came to her, Mrs. Dawes, whenever he could. Then he wrote frequently to Miriam, and visited the girl occasionally. So he went on through the winter; but he seemed not so fretted. His mother was easier about him. She thought he was getting away from Miriam.

      Miriam knew now how strong was the attraction of Clara for him; but still she was certain that the best in him would triumph. His feeling for Mrs. Dawes—who, moreover, was a married woman—was shallow and temporal, compared with his love for herself. He would come back to her, she was sure; with some of his young freshness gone, perhaps, but cured of his desire for the lesser things which other women than herself could give him. She could bear all if he were inwardly true to her and must come back.

      He saw none of the anomaly of his position. Miriam was his old friend, lover, and she belonged to Bestwood and home and his youth. Clara was a newer friend, and she belonged to Nottingham, to life, to the world. It seemed to him quite plain.

      Mrs. Dawes and he had many periods of coolness, when they saw little of each other; but they always came together again.

      “Were you horrid with Baxter Dawes?” he asked her. It was a thing that seemed to trouble him.

      “In what way?”

      “Oh, I don't know. But weren't you horrid with him? Didn't you do something that knocked him to pieces?”

      “What, pray?”

      “Making him feel as if he were nothing—I know,” Paul declared.

      “You are so clever, my friend,” she said coolly.

      The conversation broke off there. But it made her cool with him for some time.

      She very rarely saw Miriam now. The friendship between the two women was not broken off, but considerably weakened.

      “Will you come in to the concert on Sunday afternoon?” Clara asked him just after Christmas.

      “I promised to go up to Willey Farm,” he replied.

      “Oh, very well.”

      “You don't mind, do you?” he asked.

      “Why should I?” she answered.

      Which almost annoyed him.

      “You know,” he said, “Miriam and I have been a lot to each other ever since I was sixteen—that's seven years now.”

      “It's a long time,” Clara replied.

      “Yes; but somehow she—it doesn't go right—”

      “How?” asked Clara.

      “She seems to draw me and draw me, and she wouldn't leave a single hair of me free to fall out and blow away—she'd keep it.”

      “But you like to be kept.”

      “No,” he said, “I don't. I wish it could be normal, give and take—like me and you. I want a woman to keep me, but not in her pocket.”

      “But if you love her, it couldn't be normal, like me and you.”

      “Yes; I should love her better then.

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