Her quiet opposition was breath to the fire of his jealousy. He could no longer maintain his voice of argument. ‘It just means this: you won’t hear anything against the will, and you’re glad of it.’ ‘Your loss is mine.’ He looked at her and again drew nearer. ‘It’s not very likely that you’ll stay to share it.’ ‘Stay?’ She watched his movements with apprehension. ‘How can I separate my future from yours?’ He desired to touch her, to give some sign of his mastery, whether tenderly or with rude force mattered little. ‘It’s easy to say that, but we know it doesn’t mean much.’ His tongue stammered. As Adela rose and tried to move apart, he caught her arm roughly, then her waist, and kissed her several times about the face. Released, she sank back upon the chair, pale, tern fled; her breath caught with voiceless sobs. Mutimer turned away and leaned his arms upon the mantelpiece. His body trembled. Neither could count the minutes that followed. An inexplicable shame kept Mutimer silent and motionless. Adela, when the shock of repugnance had passed over, almost forgot the subject of their conversation in vain endeavours to understand this man in whose power she was. His passion was mysterious, revolting--impossible for her to reconcile with his usual bearing, with his character as she understood it. It was more than a year since he had mingled his talk to her with any such sign of affection, and her feeling was one of outrage. What protection had she? The caresses had followed upon an insult, and were themselves brutal, degrading. It was a realisation of one of those half-formed fears which had so long haunted her in his presence. What would life be with him, away from the protections of a wealthy home, when circumstances would have made him once more the London artisan, and in doing so would have added harshness to his natural temper; when he would no longer find it worth while to preserve the semblance of gentle breeding? Was there strength in her to endure that? Presently he turned, and she heard him speak her name. She raised her eyes with a half-smile of abashment. He approached and took her hand. ‘Have you thought what this means to me?’ he asked, in a much softer voice. ‘I know it must be very hard.’ ‘I don’t mean in that way. I’m not thinking of the change back to poverty. It’s my work in New Wanley; my splendid opportunity of helping on Socialism. Think, just when everything is fairly started! You can’t feel it as I do, I suppose. You haven’t the same interest in the work. I hoped once you would have had.’ Adela remembered what her brother had said, but she could not allude to it. To question was useless. She thought of a previous occasion on which he had justified himself when accused. He still held her hand. ‘Which would do the most good with this money, he or I?’ ‘We cannot ask that question.’