th any one. Moreover, none of the books
she read, from _Wuthering_ _Heights_ to _Man_ _and_ _Superman_, and the
plays of Ibsen, suggested from their analysis of love that what their
heroines felt was what she was feeling now. It seemed to her that her
sensations had no name.

She met Terence frequently. When they did not meet, he was apt to send a
note with a book or about a book, for he had not been able after all to
neglect that approach to intimacy. But sometimes he did not come or did
not write for several days at a time. Again when they met their meeting
might be one of inspiriting joy or of harassing despair. Over all their
partings hung the sense of interruption, leaving them both unsatisfied,
though ignorant that the other shared the feeling.

If Rachel was ignorant of her own feelings, she was even more completely
ignorant of his. At first he moved as a god; as she came to know him
better he was still the centre of light, but combined with this beauty
a wonderful power of making her daring and confident of herself. She
was conscious of emotions and powers which she had never suspected in
herself, and of a depth in the world hitherto unknown. When she thought
of their relationship she saw rather than reasoned, representing her
view of what Terence felt by a picture of him drawn across the room to
stand by her side. This passage across the room amounted to a physical
sensation, but what it meant she did not know.

Thus the time went on, wearing a calm, bright look upon its surface.
Letters came from England, letters came from Willoughby, and the days
accumulated their small events which shaped the year. Superficially,
three odes of Pindar were mended, Helen covered about five inches of her
embroidery, and St. John completed the first two acts of a play. He and
Rachel being now very good friends, he read them aloud to her, and she
was so genuinely impressed by the skill of his rhythms and the variety
of his adjectives, as well as by the fact that he was Terence's friend,
that he began to wonder whether he was not intended for literature
rather than for law. It was a time of profound thought and sudden
revelations for more than one couple, and several single people.

A Sunday came, which no one in the villa with the exception of Rachel
and the Spanish maid proposed to recognise. Rachel still went to church,
because she had never, according to Helen, taken the trouble to think
about it. Since they had celebrated