t months, and the things you told me then?"

"I can't help it! I don't want to go on."

"You don't want any more of me?"

"I want us to break off--you be free of me, I free of you."

"And what about these last months?"

"I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was true."

"Then why are you different now?"

"I'm not--I'm the same--only I know it's no good going on."

"You haven't told me why it's no good."

"Because I don't want to go on--and I don't want to marry."

"How many times have you offered to marry me, and I wouldn't?"

"I know; but I want us to break off."

There was silence for a moment or two, while he dug viciously at the
earth. She bent her head, pondering. He was an unreasonable child. He
was like an infant which, when it has drunk its fill, throws away and
smashes the cup. She looked at him, feeling she could get hold of him
and WRING some consistency out of him. But she was helpless. Then she
cried:

"I have said you were only fourteen--you are only FOUR!"

He still dug at the earth viciously. He heard.

"You are a child of four," she repeated in her anger.

He did not answer, but said in his heart: "All right; if I'm a child of
four, what do you want me for? I don't want another mother." But he said
nothing to her, and there was silence.

"And have you told your people?" she asked.

"I have told my mother."

There was another long interval of silence.

"Then what do you WANT?" she asked.

"Why, I want us to separate. We have lived on each other all these
years; now let us stop. I will go my own way without you, and you will
go your way without me. You will have an independent life of your own
then."

There was in it some truth that, in spite of her bitterness, she could
not help registering. She knew she felt in a sort of bondage to him,
which she hated because she could not control it. She hated her love for
him from the moment it grew too strong for her. And, deep down, she had
hated him because she loved him and he dominated her. She had resisted
his domination. She had fought to keep herself free of him in the last
issue. And she was free of him, even more than he of her.

"And," he continued, "we shall always be more or less each other's work.
You have done a lot for me, I for you. Now let us start and live by
ourselves."

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"Nothing--only to be free," he answered.

She, however, knew in her heart that Clara's