st time since many months, and attended to
her with respect.

"Why?" he said.

"See," she said, "how you waste yourself! You might be ill, you might
die, and I never know--be no more then than if I had never known you."

"And if we married?" he asked.

"At any rate, I could prevent you wasting yourself and being a prey to
other women--like--like Clara."

"A prey?" he repeated, smiling.

She bowed her head in silence. He lay feeling his despair come up again.

"I'm not sure," he said slowly, "that marriage would be much good."

"I only think of you," she replied.

"I know you do. But--you love me so much, you want to put me in your
pocket. And I should die there smothered."

She bent her head, put her fingers between her lips, while the
bitterness surged up in her heart.

"And what will you do otherwise?" she asked.

"I don't know--go on, I suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go abroad."

The despairing doggedness in his tone made her go on her knees on the
rug before the fire, very near to him. There she crouched as if she were
crushed by something, and could not raise her head. His hands lay quite
inert on the arms of his chair. She was aware of them. She felt that
now he lay at her mercy. If she could rise, take him, put her arms round
him, and say, "You are mine," then he would leave himself to her.
But dare she? She could easily sacrifice herself. But dare she assert
herself? She was aware of his dark-clothed, slender body, that seemed
one stroke of life, sprawled in the chair close to her. But no; she
dared not put her arms round it, take it up, and say, "It is mine, this
body. Leave it to me." And she wanted to. It called to all her woman's
instinct. But she crouched, and dared not. She was afraid he would
not let her. She was afraid it was too much. It lay there, his body,
abandoned. She knew she ought to take it up and claim it, and claim
every right to it. But--could she do it? Her impotence before him,
before the strong demand of some unknown thing in him, was her
extremity. Her hands fluttered; she half-lifted her head. Her eyes,
shuddering, appealing, gone, almost distracted, pleaded to him suddenly.
His heart caught with pity. He took her hands, drew her to him, and
comforted her.

"Will you have me, to marry me?" he said very low.

Oh, why did not he take her? Her very soul belonged to him. Why would he
not take what was his? She had borne so long the cruelty of belonging to
him and not being