her master; and he struck her, again and again. But he did not wring
any sound from her. She lay face downwards, and let the blows fall.

When his first onslaught of rage had spent itself, a glimmering of
reason returned to him. He staggered to his feet, and looked down with
horror at the prostrate figure. "My God, what am I doing?--what have I
done?" A sudden fear swept through him that he had killed her.

But now, for the first time, she spoke. "It's true!" he heard her say.

At these words, the desire actually to kill her was so overwhelming
that he moved precipitately away, and, in order not to see her, pressed
his smarting hand to his eyes. But in the greater clearness of thought
this shutting off of externals brought with it, the ultimate meaning of
what she had done was revealed to him; he saw red through his closed
lids, and, going back to her, he struck her anew. The knowledge that,
under her dressing-gown, she had nothing on but a thin nightgown, gave
him pleasure; he felt each of the blows fall full and hard on her firm
flesh.

From time to time, she turned her face to cry: "It's true ... it is
true!" deliberately inciting him to continue.

But the moment came when his arm sank powerless to his side, when, if
his life had depended on it, he could not have struck another blow.
With difficulty, he rose to his feet; and such was the apathy that came
over him, that it was all he could do to drag himself to the sofa. Once
there, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

For half an hour or more, neither of them stirred. Then, when she
understood that he had done, that he was not coming back to her, Louise
pulled herself into a sitting position, and from there to her feet. She
could hardly stand; her head swam; not an inch of her body but ached
and stung. Her exaltation had left her now; she began to feel sick,
and, going over to the bed, she fell heavily upon it.

Maurice heard her movements; but so incapable did he feel of further
effort that lie remained sitting, with his eyes shut. A new sound
roused him: she was shivering, and with such violence that the bedstead
was shaken. After a crucial struggle with himself, he rose, and crossed
the room. She was lying outside the bedclothes. He pulled off an
eider-down quilt, and spread it over her. As he did this, his arms were
round her, all the beloved body was in his grasp. When he had finished,
he did not remove them, but, kneeling down beside the bed, pressed his