“Yes,” he said, “isn’t it enough?”

“I’d rather—­” she began and hesitated.

“You’d rather I understood Emerson?”

Her blood flushed in the honey whiteness of her face.  She rose, put the book in its place, and left the room.

“Edith,” he said, relating the incident afterwards, “I thought she was coming round when she wanted to read to me.  Why did she get up and go like that?”

“She went, dear goose, because she was afraid to stay.”

“Why afraid?”

“Because she’s fighting you, Wallie.  It’s all right if she’s got to fight.”

“Yes, but suppose she wins?”

“She can’t win fighting—­she’s a woman.  Her only chance is to run away.”

That night Anne knelt by her bedside and hid her face and prayed for Walter; that he might be purified, so that she might love him without sin; that he and she might travel together on the divine way, and together be received into the heavenly places.

She had felt that night the stirring of natural affection.  It had come back to her, a feeble, bruised, humiliated thing.  She could not harbour it without spiritual justification.

She kept herself awake by saying:  “I can’t love him, I can’t love him—­unless God makes him fit for me to love.”

Sleeping, she dreamed that she was in his arms.

CHAPTER IX

It was Anne’s birthday.  It shone in mid-May like the front of June.  Anne’s bedroom was over Edith’s and looked out on the garden.  A little rain had fallen over night.  Through the open window the day greeted her with a breath of flowers and earth; a day that came to her all golden, ripe and sweet from the south.

Her dressing-table was placed sideways from the window.  Anne, fresh from her cold bath, in a white muslin gown, with her thick sleek hair coiled and burnished, sat before the looking-glass.

There was a knock at the door, not Nanna’s bold awakening summons, but a shy and gentle sound.  Her heart shook her voice as she responded.

“Is it permitted?” said Majendie.

“If you like,” she answered quietly.

He presented his customary morning sacrifice of flowers.  Hitherto he had not presumed so far as to bring it to her room.  It waited for her decorously at breakfast time, beside her plate.

She took the flowers from him, acknowledged their fragrance by a quiver of her delicate nostrils, thanked him, and laid them on the dressing-table.

He seated himself on the window-sill, where he could see her with the day upon her.  She noticed that he had brought with him, beside the flowers, a small oblong wooden box.  He laid the box on his knee and covered it with his hand.  He sat very still, looking at her as her firm white hands caressed her coiled hair into shape.  Once she moved his flowers to find her comb, and laid them down again.