her subdued, not
troubling to exert it save mechanically. He was sorry for that lassitude
of hers, and after supper, walking under the elms down the lush valley,
he tried to fathom it.

"It's nothing," said Phoebe. "I'm lonely, I suppose. You know, there's
no one I'm really friends with, only Vassie and you, and I shan't see
her any more now. And you never come near me...."

Ishmael felt a guilty pang as he realised this was true; he cast about
to lead the talk elsewhere.

"You were great friends with Archelaus while he was at Botallack last
autumn, I've heard," he said teasingly. "Indeed, I did think that even
when I lost Vassie I might have another sister...."

"Him ...!" cried Phoebe; "never, never! You're being cruel to me,
Ishmael, so you are! If you've only come to tease me you can go home to
your old manor-house again!"

"Why--Phoebe! What's the matter; what have I said to hurt you?" asked
Ishmael. "Why, I wouldn't do that for the world! Phoebe, dear, tell me
what it is that's the matter. Surely you can trust me! Is it because
Archelaus has gone?"

Phoebe burst into tears. Ishmael was alarmed, embarrassed, even
irritated, yet somehow she was nestling against him and his arms were
holding her while he consoled her. She sobbed on, her warm little body
pressed convulsively against him; his words "surely you can trust me ..."
had caught at her heart. After months of furtive meetings with
Archelaus, after being drawn into a whirlpool of passion which she could
not resist and yet always resented, hating something in Archelaus even
when his ardour pursued her most, hating the thought of him at every
moment before and after, when his lips were not actually upon
hers--after all this she felt she wanted nothing but to fling herself on
this quieter, kinder, younger man, on whom she still felt the freshness
she had lost. It was only fair, she told herself; if Ishmael had cared
for her a year ago she would have been armed against Archelaus and her
own nature. Slowly her sobs grew less frequent--they became the faint
sniffs of a tired child; but she still lay in his arms, snuggling
closer, one hand, very small and smooth, creeping up to lie against his
neck. Ishmael looked down, and through the dusk he could see how wet
were the lashes on her pale cheek; the curve of her throat and bosom was
still troubled by sobbing breaths. He drew her closer; then his clasp of
her began to change, grow fiercer; she felt it and thril