it was enough. For the time, her soul was
destroyed with the exquisite shock of his invisible fluid lightning.
She knew. And this knowledge was a death from which she must recover.
How much more of him was there to know? Ah much, much, many days
harvesting for her large, yet perfectly subtle and intelligent hands
upon the field of his living, radio-active body. Ah, her hands were
eager, greedy for knowledge. But for the present it was enough, enough,
as much as her soul could bear. Too much, and she would shatter
herself, she would fill the fine vial of her soul too quickly, and it
would break. Enough now--enough for the time being. There were all the
after days when her hands, like birds, could feed upon the fields of
him mystical plastic form--till then enough.

And even he was glad to be checked, rebuked, held back. For to desire
is better than to possess, the finality of the end was dreaded as
deeply as it was desired.

They walked on towards the town, towards where the lamps threaded
singly, at long intervals down the dark high-road of the valley. They
came at length to the gate of the drive.

'Don't come any further,' she said.

'You'd rather I didn't?' he asked, relieved. He did not want to go up
the public streets with her, his soul all naked and alight as it was.

'Much rather--good-night.' She held out her hand. He grasped it, then
touched the perilous, potent fingers with his lips.

'Good-night,' he said. 'Tomorrow.'

And they parted. He went home full of the strength and the power of
living desire.

But the next day, she did not come, she sent a note that she was kept
indoors by a cold. Here was a torment! But he possessed his soul in
some sort of patience, writing a brief answer, telling her how sorry he
was not to see her.

The day after this, he stayed at home--it seemed so futile to go down
to the office. His father could not live the week out. And he wanted to
be at home, suspended.

Gerald sat on a chair by the window in his father's room. The landscape
outside was black and winter-sodden. His father lay grey and ashen on
the bed, a nurse moved silently in her white dress, neat and elegant,
even beautiful. There was a scent of eau-de-cologne in the room. The
nurse went out of the room, Gerald was alone with death, facing the
winter-black landscape.

'Is there much more water in Denley?' came the faint voice, determined
and querulous, from the bed. The dying man was asking about a leakage