ut he's a
fool."

"It was something like your mother and father," said Miriam.

"Yes; but my mother, I believe, got real joy and satisfaction out of
my father at first. I believe she had a passion for him; that's why she
stayed with him. After all, they were bound to each other."

"Yes," said Miriam.

"That's what one MUST HAVE, I think," he continued--"the real, real
flame of feeling through another person--once, only once, if it only
lasts three months. See, my mother looks as if she'd HAD everything that
was necessary for her living and developing. There's not a tiny bit of
feeling of sterility about her."

"No," said Miriam.

"And with my father, at first, I'm sure she had the real thing. She
knows; she has been there. You can feel it about her, and about him, and
about hundreds of people you meet every day; and, once it has happened
to you, you can go on with anything and ripen."

"What happened, exactly?" asked Miriam.

"It's so hard to say, but the something big and intense that changes
you when you really come together with somebody else. It almost seems to
fertilise your soul and make it that you can go on and mature."

"And you think your mother had it with your father?"

"Yes; and at the bottom she feels grateful to him for giving it her,
even now, though they are miles apart."

"And you think Clara never had it?"

"I'm sure."

Miriam pondered this. She saw what he was seeking--a sort of baptism of
fire in passion, it seemed to her. She realised that he would never be
satisfied till he had it. Perhaps it was essential to him, as to some
men, to sow wild oats; and afterwards, when he was satisfied, he would
not rage with restlessness any more, but could settle down and give her
his life into her hands. Well, then, if he must go, let him go and have
his fill--something big and intense, he called it. At any rate, when he
had got it, he would not want it--that he said himself; he would want
the other thing that she could give him. He would want to be owned, so
that he could work. It seemed to her a bitter thing that he must go, but
she could let him go into an inn for a glass of whisky, so she could let
him go to Clara, so long as it was something that would satisfy a need
in him, and leave him free for herself to possess.

"Have you told your mother about Clara?" she asked.

She knew this would be a test of the seriousness of his feeling for the
other woman: she knew he was going to Clara for