time. She sat with her hands pressing on the grass, her body bent back a little.
The curve from her neck to her feet was like the shadow of some colour against the brown earth because he saw her only dimly. Her hair burnt against the blue sky but her eyes—her eyes! His gaze caught hers and he surrendered himself to that tenderness, that mystery, that passion that she flung about him. In her eyes he saw what only a lover can see—the terror and the splendour of a soul surprised for the first time into love. She was caught, she was trapped, she was gorgeously delivered. In her eyes he saw that he had her in the hollow of his hand and that she was glad to be there.
But even now they had not touched—they had not moved from their places. They were urged towards one another by some fierce power but also some great suspense still restrained them.
Then Clare spoke, hurriedly, almost pleadingly.
“But Peter, listen—before I say any more—you must know me better. I think that it is just because I love you so much that I see myself clearly to-day as I have never seen myself before—although I have, I suppose really known . . . things . . . but I have denied them to myself. But now I know that all that I say is true—”
“I am ready,” he said, smiling.
But she did not smile back at him, she was intensely serious, she spoke without moving her eyes from his face.
“It is not altogether my fault. I have been an only child and everything that I have wanted I have always had. I have despised my mother and even my father because they have given in to me—that is not a pleasant thing to know. And now, comfort, happiness, an absence of all misery, these things are essential—”
“I will look after you,” said Peter. It was almost with irritation that she brushed aside his assurance.
“Yes, yes, I know, but you must understand that it's more than that. If I am unhappy I am another creature you haven't seen . . . you don't know. . . . If I am frightened—”
“But Clare, dear, we're all like that—”
