thing in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them.
He watched her pensive, puzzled face.
"I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded.
It piqued him rather.
"Why not?" he asked.
"Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said.
He was crossed, yet he loved her violently.
"You've got a museau, not a face," he said.
"Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned—he was not satisfied.
"Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?"
"I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you."
"All right," he said.
He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility.
They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment.
They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter.
They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions.
They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses.
The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances.
"Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband.
So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately.
Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed
