urch? You used to come happily, didn't
you?"

"I think I came chiefly to be near you," he said.

"That does make me so unhappy. I'd almost rather you came out of
politeness to Father."

"Well, that was another reason," Guy admitted.

"And you never came because you wanted to?" she asked, miserably.

"Of course I wanted to."

"But because you believed?"

"In what?"

"Oh, Guy, don't be so cruel. Don't you believe in anything?"

"I believe in you," he said. "Pauline, I believe in you so passionately
that when I am with you I believe in what you believe."

"Then you haven't any faith?"

"I want to have it," said Guy. "If God won't condescend to give it to me
..." he broke off with a shrug.

"But religion is either true or it isn't true, and if it isn't true why
do you encourage me in lies?" she demanded, with desperate entreaty.

"I'm ready to believe," he said.

"How can you expect to have faith if your reason for it is merely to sit
next me in church?" she asked, bitterly.

"Now, I think it's you who are being cruel," said Guy.

"I don't care. I don't care if I am cruel. You'll break my heart."

"Good God!" Guy exclaimed. "Haven't I enough to torment me without
religion appearing upon the scene? If you want me to hate it.... No,
Pauline, I'm sorry ... you mustn't think that I don't long to have your
faith. If I only could.... Oh, Pauline, Pauline!"

She yielded to his consolation, and when he told her of the poems sent
back almost by return of post from the second publisher she must open
wide her compassionate arms. Nevertheless, he had somehow maltreated
their love; and Pauline was aware of a wild effort to prepare for
sorrow, whether near at hand or still far off she did not know, but she
seemed to hear it like a wind rising at sunset.

ANOTHER SPRING

MARCH

When the poems were returned by three publishers within the first
fortnight of March, Guy was inclined to surrender his vocation and to
think about such regular work as would banish the reproach he began to
fancy was now perceptible at the back of everybody's eyes. The weather
was abominably cold, and even Plashers Mead itself was no longer the
embodiment of the old enthusiasm. Already in order to pay current
expenses he was drawing upon the next quarter, and the combination of
tradesmen's books with icy draughts curling through the house produced
an atmosphere of perpetual exasperation. It always seemed to be coldest
on Mo