and clumsy, his face
close to hers, and with the brooch pinned to her, she hated him more
than she had done when he held Miriam in his mad arms.

"I've the ring in my pocket, too," he said. "Next week--Did you hear me?
Sometimes--sometimes you look deaf."

"Yes, I did hear."

She shook herself and rose, but he caught a hand. "I want to take you
right away. You look so tired."

"I am not tired."

"I shall take care of you."

The limp hand stiffened. "You know, don't you, that I'm not going to
leave my stepmother? You are not thinking--?"

"No, no," he said gently, but the mildness in his voice promised himself
possession of her, and she snatched away her hand.

"I must have exercise. I'm going to run."

"Give me your hand again."

"There is no need."

"You'll stumble." He did not wait for her assent, and for that and for
the strength of his hold she liked him, and, as she ran, and her blood
quickened, she liked him better. She did not understand herself, for she
had imagined horror at his nearness, but not horror pierced through with
a delight that shrank. She thought there must be something vile in her,
and while she ran she felt, in her desperate youth, that she was
altogether worthless since she could not control her pleasure to this
swift movement supported by his hand. She ran, leaping over stones and
heather and, for a short time that seemed endless, her senses had their
way. She was a woman, young and full of life, and the moor was wide and
dark, great-bosomed, and beside her there ran a man who held her firmly
and tightened, ever and again, his grasp of her slipping fingers. Soon
it was no effort not to think and to feel recklessly was to escape.
Their going made a wind to fan their faces; there was a smell of damp
earth and dusty heather, of Halkett's tweeds and his tobacco; the wind
had a faint smell of frost; there was one star in a greenish sky.

She stopped when she could go no further, and she heard his hurried
breathing and her own.

"How you can run!" he said. "Like a hare! And jump!"

"No! Don't!" She could not bear his personalities: she wished she were
still running, free and careless, running from the shame that now came
creeping on her. "No, no!" she cried again, but this time it was to her
own thoughts.

"What have I done?" he asked.

"Nothing. I was speaking to myself."

He never could be sure of her, and he searched for words while he
watched the face she had turned skywards