ry well; then she would stand
aloof till he said something. It had been coming a long time, this
bursting of the storm in him, when he would come back to her. This
evening there was between them a peculiar condition of suspense.
He worked feverishly and mechanically, so that he could escape from
himself. It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent
of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad. Suddenly he got
up and went out of doors.

The beauty of the night made him want to shout. A half-moon, dusky gold,
was sinking behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden, making
the sky dull purple with its glow. Nearer, a dim white fence of lilies
went across the garden, and the air all round seemed to stir with scent,
as if it were alive. He went across the bed of pinks, whose keen perfume
came sharply across the rocking, heavy scent of the lilies, and stood
alongside the white barrier of flowers. They flagged all loose, as if
they were panting. The scent made him drunk. He went down to the field
to watch the moon sink under.

A corncrake in the hay-close called insistently. The moon slid quite
quickly downwards, growing more flushed. Behind him the great flowers
leaned as if they were calling. And then, like a shock, he caught
another perfume, something raw and coarse. Hunting round, he found
the purple iris, touched their fleshy throats and their dark, grasping
hands. At any rate, he had found something. They stood stiff in the
darkness. Their scent was brutal. The moon was melting down upon the
crest of the hill. It was gone; all was dark. The corncrake called
still.

Breaking off a pink, he suddenly went indoors.

"Come, my boy," said his mother. "I'm sure it's time you went to bed."

He stood with the pink against his lips.

"I shall break off with Miriam, mother," he answered calmly.

She looked up at him over her spectacles. He was staring back at her,
unswerving. She met his eyes for a moment, then took off her glasses. He
was white. The male was up in him, dominant. She did not want to see him
too clearly.

"But I thought--" she began.

"Well," he answered, "I don't love her. I don't want to marry her--so I
shall have done."

"But," exclaimed his mother, amazed, "I thought lately you had made up
your mind to have her, and so I said nothing."

"I had--I wanted to--but now I don't want. It's no good. I shall break
off on Sunday. I ought to, oughtn't I?"

"You know bes