Something struggled
in him, but he could not get to her. Why? She loved him. Clara said she
even wanted him; then why couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kiss
her? Why, when she put her arm in his, timidly, as they walked, did he
feel he would burst forth in brutality and recoil? He owed himself to
her; he wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the recoil and the shrinking
from her was love in its first fierce modesty. He had no aversion for
her. No, it was the opposite; it was a strong desire battling with a
still stronger shyness and virginity. It seemed as if virginity were a
positive force, which fought and won in both of them. And with her he
felt it so hard to overcome; yet he was nearest to her, and with her
alone could he deliberately break through. And he owed himself to her.
Then, if they could get things right, they could marry; but he would not
marry unless he could feel strong in the joy of it--never. He could not
have faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice himself in
a marriage he did not want would be degrading, and would undo all his
life, make it a nullity. He would try what he COULD do.

And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always, she was sad, dreaming
her religion; and he was nearly a religion to her. He could not bear to
fail her. It would all come right if they tried.

He looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were like
himself, bound in by their own virginity, which they could not break
out of. They were so sensitive to their women that they would go without
them for ever rather than do them a hurt, an injustice. Being the sons
of mothers whose husbands had blundered rather brutally through their
feminine sanctities, they were themselves too diffident and shy. They
could easier deny themselves than incur any reproach from a woman; for
a woman was like their mother, and they were full of the sense of their
mother. They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy,
rather than risk the other person.

He went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, brought
the tears almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her as she sang.
Annie was playing a song on the piano. As Miriam sang her mouth seemed
hopeless. She sang like a nun singing to heaven. It reminded him so much
of the mouth and eyes of one who sings beside a Botticelli Madonna, so
spiritual. Again, hot as steel, came up the pain in him. Why must he ask
her for the other thing? Why was the