happy, until I married. Things frighten me. You don't understand me, Peter, how easily I'm frightened—you never seemed to see that. Other people—know.”
“I've been selfish—I—”
“Yes,” she went on still in that high voice, “and you never consider me in little things. And you laugh at me as though I were stupid. I don't suppose it's all your fault. You were brought up—roughly. But you are rough. You hurt me often. I can't bear,” her lip was trembling and she was nearly crying—“I can't bear being unhappy—”
“My God!” “cried Peter, “what a beast I am! What a brute I've been!”
“Yes—and you never seemed to think that I minded poor little Stephen's death—the dear little thing—of course it hurt me dreadfully—and you never thought of me—”
“It's all going to be different now. Love me, Clare— love me and it will all come back. And then if you'll only love me I'll be able to write the most wonderful books. I'll be famous all the world over—if you'll only love me, Clare darling—”
He dropt on to his knees before her and looking up at her whispered—“Clare—darling, darling—you're all that I've got now—everything in the world. And in return I'll try to be everything to you. I'll spend my life in making you happy. I'll care for only one thing and that is to be your servant. Clare—Clare—”
She gave a little protesting cry—“Peter, Peter—don't—I—I—can't—” and then in a shuddering whisper—“Peter—I'm not good enough—I don't love you now—I—can't—”
But he had caught her, was holding her to him now, with both his arms round her, pressing her against his shirt, hurting her—at last covering her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks with kisses.
He had not heard those words now, in the triumph of having her back again, his as she had been on the first day of their marriage, did not feel her body unresponsive, her hands cold, nor did he see the appeal, wild and desperate, in her eyes. . . .
At last he left her, closing, softly her door between them.
