say that. It had slipped out unawares, and in my
confusion at the self-revelation which it seemed to make, I tripped in
the darkness and would have fallen if Martin had not caught me up.

In doing this he had to put his arms about me and to hold me until I was
steady on my feet, and having done so he took my hand and drew it
through his arm and in this way we walked the rest of the way back.

It would be impossible and perhaps foolish to say what that incident
meant to me. I felt a thrill of joy, a quivering flood of delight which,
with all the raptures of my spiritual love, had never come to me before.

Every woman who loves her husband must know what it is, but to me it was
a great revelation. It was just as if some new passion had sprung into
life in me at a single moment. And it had--the mighty passion that lies
at the root of our being, the overwhelming instinct of sex which, taking
no account of religion and resolutions, sweeps everything before it like
a flood.

I think Martin must have felt it too, for all at once he ceased to
speak, and I was trembling so much with this new feeling of tenderness
that I could not utter a word. So I heard nothing as we walked on but
the crackle of our footsteps on the gravel path and the measured boom of
the sea which we were leaving behind us--nothing but that and the quick
beating in my own breast.

When we came to the garden the frowning face of the old house was in
front of us, and it was all in darkness, save for the light in my room
which came out on to the balcony. Everything was quiet. The air was
breathless. There was not a rustle in the trees.

We took two or three turns on the lawn in front of my windows, saying
nothing but feeling terribly, fearfully happy. After a few moments (or
they seemed few) a cuckoo clock on my desk struck eleven, and we went up
the stone stairway into my boudoir and parted for the night.

Even then we did not speak, but Martin took my hand and lifted my
fingers to his lips, and the quivering delight I had been feeling ever
since I slipped on the headland rushed through me again.

At the next moment I was in my room. I did not turn on the light. I
undressed in the darkness and when my maid came I was in bed. She
wanted to tell me about a scene with the housekeeper in the kitchen, but
I said:

"I don't want to talk to-night, Price."

I did not know what was happening to me. I only knew, for the first time
that night, that above everyt