'Ah, you are a fool,' he cried, bitterly, with some contempt.

'Yes, I am. I AM a fool. And thank God for it. I'm too big a fool to
swallow your cleverness. God be praised. You go to your women--go to
them--they are your sort--you've always had a string of them trailing
after you--and you always will. Go to your spiritual brides--but don't
come to me as well, because I'm not having any, thank you. You're not
satisfied, are you? Your spiritual brides can't give you what you want,
they aren't common and fleshy enough for you, aren't they? So you come
to me, and keep them in the background! You will marry me for daily
use. But you'll keep yourself well provided with spiritual brides in
the background. I know your dirty little game.' Suddenly a flame ran
over her, and she stamped her foot madly on the road, and he winced,
afraid that she would strike him. 'And I, I'M not spiritual enough, I'M
not as spiritual as that Hermione--!' Her brows knitted, her eyes
blazed like a tiger's. 'Then go to her, that's all I say, GO to her, GO.
Ha, she spiritual--SPIRITUAL, she! A dirty materialist as she is. SHE
spiritual? What does she care for, what is her spirituality? What IS
it?' Her fury seemed to blaze out and burn his face. He shrank a
little. 'I tell you it's DIRT, DIRT, and nothing BUT dirt. And it's
dirt you want, you crave for it. Spiritual! Is THAT spiritual, her
bullying, her conceit, her sordid materialism? She's a fishwife, a
fishwife, she is such a materialist. And all so sordid. What does she
work out to, in the end, with all her social passion, as you call it.
Social passion--what social passion has she?--show it me!--where is it?
She wants petty, immediate POWER, she wants the illusion that she is a
great woman, that is all. In her soul she's a devilish unbeliever,
common as dirt. That's what she is at the bottom. And all the rest is
pretence--but you love it. You love the sham spirituality, it's your
food. And why? Because of the dirt underneath. Do you think I don't
know the foulness of your sex life--and her's?--I do. And it's that
foulness you want, you liar. Then have it, have it. You're such a
liar.'

She turned away, spasmodically tearing the twigs of spindleberry from
the hedge, and fastening them, with vibrating fingers, in the bosom of
her coat.

He stood watching in silence. A wonderful tenderness burned in him, at
the sight of her quivering, so sensitive fingers: and at the same time
he was full of ra