ishly passionate. A sort of brutality had
entered into their relation which Guy hated, but to which in these
circumstances that made him feverishly glad to wound her he allowed more
liberty every day. The merely physical side of this struggle between
them was, of course, accentuated by the gag placed upon discussion. He
would not give her the chance of saying why she feared his kisses, and
he took an unfair advantage of the conviction that Pauline would never
declare a reason until he demanded one. He was horribly conscious of
abusing her love for him, and the more he was aware of that the more
brutal he showed himself until sometimes he used to wonder in dismay if
at the back of his mind the impulse to destroy his love altogether had
not been born.

Easter was approaching, and Pauline went to Oxford for a week to get
Summer clothes. When she came back, Guy found her attitude changed. She
was remote, almost evasive, and at the back of her tenderest glance was
now a wistful appeal that perplexed his ardor.

"I feel you don't want me to kiss you," he said, reproachfully. "What
has happened? Why have you come back from Oxford so cold? What has
happened to you, Pauline?"

Her eyes took fire, melted into tenderness, flamed once more, and then
were quenched in rising tears.

The voice in which she answered him seemed to come from another world.

"Guy, I am not cold.... I'm not cold enough...."

She flung herself away from his gesture of endearment and buried her
cheeks in the cushion of the faded old settee. A wild calm had fallen
upon the room, as if like the atmosphere before a thunder-storm it could
register a warning of the emotional tempest at hand. The books, the
furniture, the very pattern of birds and daisies upon the wall stood
out sharply, almost luridly it seemed; the cuckoo from the passage
called the hour in notes of alarm, as if a storm-cock were sweeping up
to cover from dangerous open country.

"What do you mean?" Guy asked. He knew that he was carrying the
situation between Pauline and himself farther along than he had ever
taken it since the night they met. Yet nothing could have stopped his
course at this moment and, if the end should ruin his life, he would
persist.

"What do you mean?" he repeated.

"Don't ask me," she sobbed. "It's cruel to ask me."

"You mean your mother...." he began.

"No, no, it's myself, myself."

"My dearest, if it's only yourself, you need not be afraid. Why, you're