He had to find her and hold her fast.  Nothing else mattered—­neither his work, nor his career, nor Christine.  It was terrible how little they seemed now—­a handful of dust—­beside this mounting, imperative desire.  He had been so invulnerable.  In wanting nothing but what was in himself he had been able to defy exterior events.  Now he was stripped of his defence.  He could be hurt.  He could be made desperately happy or unhappy by things which he had thought trivial and purposeless—­the playthings of inferior children.

He came upon her suddenly.  She knelt in the long grass, idle, with a few scattered primroses in her lap as though in the midst of gathering them she had been overtaken by a dream.  He called her by name, angrily, because of what he suffered.  He stumbled to her and flung himself down beside her and held her close to him, ruthless with desire and his child’s fear.

In that sheer physical explosion his whole personality blazed up and seemed to melt away, flowing into new form.  He had dashed down the hill, a crude, exultant boy, into the whole storm and mystery of manhood.  And for all his fierceness his heart was small within him, afraid of her, and of itself, and its own hunger.

At last he let her go.  He tore himself from her and dropped face down in the grass, trembling with grief and shame.  He heard her say:  “Robert—­dear Robert,” very quietly, and her hand touched him, passing like a breath of cool wind over his hair and neck.  He kissed it humbly, pressing it to his wet, hot cheek.

“I was frightened, Francey—­and jealous—­of everything—­of the things you love that I don’t even know of—­of the places you’ve been to—­of your friends—­your money—­your work.  I thought you’d run away to Italy—­or somewhere else where I couldn’t follow—­that I’d lost you——­”

He saw her face and how deeply stirred she was.  She had blazed up in answer to him, but that very fire lit up something in her which was not new, but which now stood out full armed—­a clear-eyed austerity.

“I felt, too, as though I were running away—­to the ends of the world—­but not from you, Robert.  I wanted you to come too.  I asked you.  You’re not frightened now, are you?”

“Not so much.”

“Let’s be quiet—­quite quiet, Robert.  We’ve got to talk this out, haven’t we?  I’ve got to understand.  Sit here and help me tie these together.  They’re for Christine.  It’ll make it easier for us.  You didn’t mean this to happen.  It was the sun and wind—­it goes to one’s head like being out of prison after years and years.  You mustn’t make a mistake.  You would never forgive yourself or me.  I’d understand if you said:  ‘It was just to-day and being happy.’  But I won’t play at our being in love with one another, Robert.”

“It isn’t a mistake, I’m not playing.  I don’t pretend I meant to let you know.  I was frightened.  I wanted to hold fast to you.  But I’ve been sure ever since that night at Brown’s——­”