rapacious smile that would come and go on his lips as if he were
gloating over her misery. But her misery was his opportunity and he
rejoiced while the tenderest pity seemed to flood his whole being. He
pointed out to her that she knew who he was. He was Mrs Fyne's
brother. And, well, if his sister was the best friend she had in the
world, then, by Jove, it was about time somebody came along to look
after her a little.

Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he tightened his
grasp of her arm each time and even shook it a little without ceasing to
speak. The nearness of his face intimidated her. He seemed striving to
look her through. It was obvious the world had been using her ill. And
even as he spoke with indignation the very marks and stamp of this
ill-usage of which he was so certain seemed to add to the inexplicable
attraction he felt for her person. It was not pity alone, I take it.
It was something more spontaneous, perverse and exciting. It gave him
the feeling that if only he could get hold of her, no woman would belong
to him so completely as this woman.

"Whatever your troubles," he said, "I am the man to take you away from
them; that is, if you are not afraid. You told me you had no friends.
Neither have I. Nobody ever cared for me as far as I can remember.
Perhaps you could. Yes, I live on the sea. But who would you be
parting from? No one. You have no one belonging to you."

At this point she broke away from him and ran. He did not pursue her.
The tall hedges tossing in the wind, the wide fields, the clouds driving
over the sky and the sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green and
white and blue as if the world were breaking up silently in a whirl, and
her foot at the next step were bound to find the void. She reached the
gate all right, got out, and, once on the road, discovered that she had
not the courage to look back. The rest of that day she spent with the
Fyne girls who gave her to understand that she was a slow and
unprofitable person. Long after tea, nearly at dusk, Captain Anthony
(the son of the poet) appeared suddenly before her in the little garden
in front of the cottage. They were alone for the moment. The wind had
dropped. In the calm evening air the voices of Mrs Fyne and the girls
strolling aimlessly on the road could be heard. He said to her
severely:

"You have understood?"

She looked at him in silence.

"That I love you," he finished.