te, was pleased to make fun of the girls'
affection for Paul.

It was a volume of verse with a brief note: "You will allow me to send
you this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathise and wish you
well.--C.D." Paul flushed hot.

"Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes. She can't afford it. Good Lord, who ever'd have
thought it!"

He was suddenly intensely moved. He was filled with the warmth of her.
In the glow he could almost feel her as if she were present--her arms,
her shoulders, her bosom, see them, feel them, almost contain them.

This move on the part of Clara brought them into closer intimacy. The
other girls noticed that when Paul met Mrs. Dawes his eyes lifted and
gave that peculiar bright greeting which they could interpret. Knowing
he was unaware, Clara made no sign, save that occasionally she turned
aside her face from him when he came upon her.

They walked out together very often at dinner-time; it was quite open,
quite frank. Everybody seemed to feel that he was quite unaware of the
state of his own feeling, and that nothing was wrong. He talked to her
now with some of the old fervour with which he had talked to Miriam, but
he cared less about the talk; he did not bother about his conclusions.

One day in October they went out to Lambley for tea. Suddenly they came
to a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and sat on a gate, she sat
on the stile. The afternoon was perfectly still, with a dim haze, and
yellow sheaves glowing through. They were quiet.

"How old were you when you married?" he asked quietly.

"Twenty-two."

Her voice was subdued, almost submissive. She would tell him now.

"It is eight years ago?"

"Yes."

"And when did you leave him?"

"Three years ago."

"Five years! Did you love him when you married him?"

She was silent for some time; then she said slowly:

"I thought I did--more or less. I didn't think much about it. And he
wanted me. I was very prudish then."

"And you sort of walked into it without thinking?"

"Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life."

"_Somnambule_? But--when did you wake up?"

"I don't know that I ever did, or ever have--since I was a child."

"You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! And he didn't
wake you?"

"No; he never got there," she replied, in a monotone.

The brown birds dashed over the hedges where the rose-hips stood naked
and scarlet.

"Got where?" he asked.

"At me. He never really mattered to me."