“It’s raining still,” she said.

He caught back her hands.

“Would you have married me?”

“Don’t, Jerrold, don’t.  It’s cruel of you.”

He was holding her by her hands.

“Would you?  Tell me.  Tell me.”

“Let go my hands, then.”

He let them go.  They turned back to the fireplace.  Anne shivered.  She held herself to the warmth.

“You haven’t told me,” he said.

“No, I haven’t told you,” she repeated, stupidly.

“That’s because you would.  That’s because you love me.  You do love me.”

“I’ve always loved you.”

She spoke as if from some far-off place; as if the eternity of her love removed her from him, put her beyond his reach.

“But—­what’s the good of talking about it?” she said.

“All the good in the world.  We owed each other the truth.  We know it now; we know where we are.  We needn’t humbug ourselves and each other any more.  You see what comes of keeping back the truth.  Look how we’ve had to pay for it.  You and me.  Would you rather go on thinking I didn’t care for you?”

“No, Jerrold, no.  I’m only wondering what we’re to do next.”

“Next?”

“Yes. That’s why you want me to go away.”

“It isn’t.  It’s why I want you to stay.  I want you to leave off working and do all the jolly things we used to do.”

“You mustn’t make me leave off working.  It’s my only chance.”

They turned restlessly from the fireplace to the couch.  They sat one at each end of it, still for a long time, without speaking.  The fire died down.  The evening darkened in the rain.  The twilight came between them, poignant and disquieting, dimming their faces, making them strange and wonderful to each other.  Their bodies loomed up through it, wonderful and strange.  The high white stone chimney-piece glimmered like an arch into some inner place.

Outside, from the church below the farm house, the bell tinkled for service.

It ceased.

Suddenly they rose and he came towards her to take her in his arms.  She beat down his hands and hung on them, keeping him off.

“Don’t, Jerry, please, please don’t hold me.”

“Oh Anne, let me.  You let me once.  Don’t you remember?”

“We can’t now.  We mustn’t.”

And yet she knew that it would happen in some time, in some way.  But not now.  Not like this.

“We mustn’t.”

“Don’t you want me to take you in my arms?”

“No.  Not that.”

“What, then?” He pressed tighter.

“I want you not to hurt Maisie.”

“It’s too late to think of Maisie now.”

“I’m not thinking of her.  I’m thinking of you.  You’ll hurt yourself frightfully if you hurt her.”  She wrenched his hands apart and went from him to the door.

“What are you going to do?” he said.