He followed her into the little dining-room where the lamp was.  The Vicar was in bed.  The whole house was still.

Rowcliffe looked at her in the lamplight.

“We’ve walked a bit too far,” he said.

He made her lean back on the couch.  He put a pillow at her head and a footstool at her feet.

“Just rest,” he said, and she rested.

But Rowcliffe did not rest.  He moved uneasily about the room.

A sudden tiredness came over her.

She thought, “Yes.  We walked too far.”  She leaned her head back on the cushion.  Her thin arms lay stretched out on either side of her, supported by the couch.

Rowcliffe ceased to wander.  He drew up with his back against the chimney-piece, where he faced her.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She did not close them.  But the tired lids drooped.  The lifted bow of her mouth drooped.  The small, sharp-pointed breasts drooped.

And as he watched her he remembered how he had quarreled with her in that room last night.  And the thought of his brutality was intolerable to him.

His heart ached with tenderness, and his tenderness was intolerable too.

The small white face with its suffering eyes and drooping eyelids, the drooping breasts, the thin white arms slackened along the couch, the childlike helplessness of the tired body moved him with a vehement desire.  And his strength that had withstood her in her swift, defiant beauty melted away.

“Steven—­”

“Don’t speak,” he said.

She was quiet for a moment.

“But I want to, Steven.  I want to say something.”

He sighed.

“Well—­say it.”

“It’s something I want to ask you.”

“Don’t ask impossibilities.”

“I don’t think it’s impossible.  At least it wouldn’t be if you really knew.  I want you to be more careful with me.”

She paused.

He turned from her abruptly.

His turning made it easier for her.  She went on.

“It’s only a little thing—­a silly little thing.  I want you, when you’re angry with me, not to show it quite so much.”

He had turned again to her suddenly.  The look on his face stopped her.

“I’m never angry with you,” he said.

“I know you aren’t—­really.  I know.  I know.  But you make me think you are; and it hurts so terribly.”

“I didn’t know you minded.”

“I don’t always mind.  But sometimes, when I’m stupid, I simply can’t bear it.  It makes me feel as if I’d done something.  Last night I got it into my head—­”

“What did you get into your head?  Tell me—­”

“I thought I’d made you hate me.  I thought you thought I was awful—­like poor Ally.”

“You?”

He drew a long breath and sent it out again.

“You know what I think of you.”

He looked at her, threw up his head suddenly and went to her.