ther it
counted less than a word, and his sullen refusal of every trivial
pleasure and relief that lay in her power to give them hurt and puzzled
her. She saw in it only a bitter pride.

"You might at least let me make Christine's life easier in little
things," she said.

He could not tell her that Christine would have been afraid for him, as
he was afraid of the deep chairs that had seemed to clasp his tired
body in drowsy arms, of the rugs that drank up every harsh sound, of
the warm, fragrant atmosphere that was like a blow in the face of their
chill and barren poverty.

So after that one time he kept away. But he could always see the room
and Francey working there, and the slender, joyful body of the faun
poised on the verge of its mystic dance.

Once, Francey was too strong for him, and they bought tickets for the
theatre, and he sat hunched beside her in the front row of the cheap
seats and stared down at the great square of light like an outcast
gazing at the golden gates of Paradise. It was _The Tempest_, and he
hardly understood. It broke over him in overpowering sound and colour.
He was dazed and blinded. He forgot Francey. He sat with his gaunt
white face between his bands and watched them pass: Prospero, Miranda,
Ferdinand, Ariel--figures of a noble, glittering company--and wretched,
uncouth Caliban crouched on the outskirts of their lives, pining for
his lost kingdom. But in the interval he was silent, awkward and heavy
with an emotion that could not find an outlet. He felt her hand close
over his--an, almost anxious hand.

"Robert, you like it, don't you? You're not bored?" He turned to look
dazedly at her, stammering in his confusion.

"I've never been to a theatre before."

"Never? Oh, my dear----"

"Only to a circus, long ago." He drew back hastily into himself. He
did not want her to be sorry like that. He would not let her see how
shaken he was. "I never wanted to go," he said.

After that they walked home together, and in the empty street that led
into her square a moonlight spirit of phantasy seemed to possess her,
and she sang under her breath and danced in front of him, rather
solemnly as she had done as a little girl:

"Come unto these yellow sands
And then take hands. . ."

He caught hold of her. Everything was unreal--they themselves and the
unfamiliar street, painted with silver and black shadows.

"Don't--you're dancing away from me; there's nothing for you