“No, it's sheer wickedness with me. Oh! Peter I love you so much that you must listen. You mustn't think afterwards, ah, if I'd only known—”
“Aren't you making too much of it all? We've all got these things and it's just because we can help each other that we marry. We give each the courage—”
“I've always been frightened,” she said slowly, “always when anything big comes along—always. And this is the biggest thing I've ever met. If only it had been some ordinary man . . . but you, Peter, that I should hurt you.”
“You won't hurt me,” he answered her, “and I'd rather be hurt by you than helped by some one else—let's leave all this. If you love me, there's nothing else to say. . . Do you love me, Clare?”
“Yes, Peter.”
Then suddenly before he could move towards her a storm that had been creeping upon them, burst over their heads. Five minutes ago there had been no sign of anything but the finest weather, but, in a moment the black clouds had rolled up and the thunder broke, clashing upon the world. The sea had vanished.
“We must run for it,” cried Peter, raising his voice against the storm. “That cottage over there—it's the only place.”
They ran. The common was black now—the rain drove hissing, against the soil, the air was hot with the faint sulphur smell.
Peter flung himself upon the cottage door and Clare followed him in. For a moment they stood, breathless. Then Peter, conscious only that Clare was beside him, wild with the excitement of the storm, caught her, held her for a moment away from him, breathed the thunder that was about them all, and then kissed her mouth, wet with the rain.
She clung to him, white, breathless, her head on his shoulder.
“Why, you're not frightened?” The sense of her helplessness filled him with a delicious vigour. The way that her hand pressed in upon his shoulder exalted him. Her wet golden hair brushed his cheek. Then he remembered
