the
commonplace? But, Hugh"--she touched his arm with a gentle and
persuasive hand--"it _must_ be commonplace. We're just mortals, after
all, you know, no matter how imperishable our egos make us feel: and the
air of the heights is too fine and rare for mortals to breathe long at a
time. Life is, after all, an everyday affair. We've just got to blunder
through it from day to day--mostly on the low levels. Be patient with
me, dear."

But, alarmed by his expression, her words stumbled and ran out. She
stepped back a pace, a little flushed and tremulous.

"Hugh! No, Hugh, no!"

"Don't be afraid of me," he said, turning away. "I don't mean to bother.
Only--at times--"

"I know, dear; but it must _not_ be." She had recovered; there was cool
decision in her accents. She began to move briskly round the kitchen,
setting the table, preparing the meal.

He made no attempt to reason with her, but sat quietly waiting. His role
was patience, tolerance, strength restrained in waiting....

"Shall you make a fire again to-night?" she asked, when they had
concluded the meal.

"In three places," he said. "We'll not stay another day for want of
letting people know we're here."

She looked down, shyly. Coquetry with her was instinctive,
irrepressible. Her vague, provoking smile edged her lips:

"You--you want to be rid of me again, so soon, Hugh?"

He bent over the table with a set face, silent until his undeviating
gaze caught and held her eyes.

"Mary," he said slowly, "I want _you_. I mean to have you. Only by
getting away from this place will that be possible. You must come to me
of your own will."

She made the faintest negative motion of her head, her eyes fixed to his
in fascination.

"You will," he insisted, in the same level tone. "If you love me, as you
say, you must.... No--that's nonsense I won't listen to! Renunciation is
a magnificent and noble thing, but it must have a sane excuse.... You
said a while ago, this was a commonplace world, life an everyday affair.
It is. The only thing that lifts it out of the deadly, intolerable rut
is this wonderful thing man has invented and named Love. Without it we
are as Nature made us--brute things crawling and squabbling in blind
squalor. But love lifts us a little above that: love _is_ supernatural,
the only thing in all creation that rises superior to nature. There's no
such thing as a life accursed; no such thing as a life that blights;
there are no malign and vicio