... Then with a quick movement she drew back. The tears in her eyes were shining like pearls, and her face was white--quite white. Passion was in every limb of her. “That’s enough,” she said almost curtly, but it was all that she could trust herself to say. For she was overwhelmed, swept out of her depth by this sudden tide. And all the way to Liverpool Street, with George sitting in the corner opposite to her, her mind and soul were running mad riot.... “Good-bye,” he said later, at the gate of No. 14, Gifford Road, and from the inflexion of his voice she perceived that their relations had undergone a subtle change.... She watched him as he disappeared round the corner. On a sudden impulse she raced after him and caught him up. “George!” she said. “Yes?” “Will you be summoned, d’you think?” “Oh, certainly.” “Well--I thought I’d tell you ... if you’re short of money through it ... I’ve got some.... I can lend it to you ... if you’re short, that is....” “It’s awfully good of you,” he replied. Yet she knew he was thinking of something else.... Her running back to him had reopened the problem of farewell. He was debating: “Shall I kiss her again?” And she was wondering if he would. In a way she hoped not. There would be something cold-blooded in it if he did it too frequently. It would lack the fire, the spontaneity, the glorious impulse of that moment at Bishop’s Stortford railway station. It would assuredly be banal after what had happened. She was slightly afraid. She wished she had not run back to him. Nervousness assailed her. “Good-night!” she cried, and fled back along Gifford Road. Behind her she heard his voice echoing her farewell and the sound of his footsteps beginning along the deserted highway. It was nearly two a.m.... Undressing in the tiny attic bedroom she discovered a dark bruise on her right shoulder. It must have been where he lurched sideways against her just after the collision. She had not felt it. She had not known anything about it.... CHAPTER XI THE SECOND TRANT EPISODE § 1 IT was November. They had been engaged three months. Three months it was since a certain winedark evening when, in the shadows of the heavy trees on the Ridgeway, he had suddenly said: “I suppose we _are_ engaged?” “Are we?” “Well, I think it’ll be all right.... I told my father, and he didn’t object.... Will you come to tea on Sunday?” She perceived that their relations had entered on a new phase. “If you like,” she said. And he had kissed her good-bye that evening.