“Do take your coat off, Dan,” she said, and she took hold of the breast of his coat, trying to push it back over his shoulder. But she could not. Only the stare in his eyes changed to a glare as her hand moved over his shoulder. He looked down into her eyes. She became pale, rather frightened-looking, and she turned her face away, and it was drawn slightly with love and fear and misery. She tried again to put off his coat, her thin wrists pulling at it. He stood solidly planted, and did not look at her, but stared straight in front. She was playing with passion, afraid of it, and really wretched because it left her, the person, out of count. Yet she continued. And there came into his bearing, into his eyes, the curious smile of passion, pushing away even the death-horror. It was life stronger than death in him. She stood close to his breast. Their eyes met, and she was carried away. “Take your coat off, Dan,” she said coaxingly, in a low tone meant for no one but him. And she slid her hands on his shoulder, and he yielded, so that the coat was pushed back. She had flushed, and her eyes had grown very bright. She got hold of the cuff of his coat. Gently, he eased himself, so that she drew it off. Then he stood in a thin suit, which revealed his vigorous, almost mature form. “What a weight!” she exclaimed, in a peculiar penetrating voice, as she went out hugging the overcoat. In a moment she came back. He stood still in the same position, a frown over his fiercely staring eyes. The pain, the fear, the horror in his breast were all burning away in the new, fiercest flame of passion. “Get your dinner,” he said roughly to her. “I’ve had all I want,” she said. “You come an’ have yours.” He looked at the table as if he found it difficult to see things. “I want no more,” he said. She stood close to his chest. She wanted to touch him and to comfort him. There was something about him now that fascinated her. Berry felt slightly ashamed that she seemed to ignore the presence of others in the room. The mother came in. She glanced at Sutton, standing planted on the hearthrug, his head ducked, the heavy frown hiding his eyes. There was a peculiar braced intensity about him that made the elder woman afraid. Suddenly he jerked his head round to his nephew. “Get on wi’ your dinner, lad,” he said, and he went to the door. The dogs, which had continually lain down and got up again, uneasy, now rose and watched. The girl went after him, saying, clearly: “What did you want, Dan?” Her slim, quick figure was gone, the door was closed behind her. There was silence. The mother, still more slave-like in her movement, sat down in a low chair. Berry drank some beer. “That girl will leave him,” he said to himself. “She’ll hate him like poison. And serve him right. Then she’ll go off with somebody else.” And she did. THE HORSE DEALER’S DAUGHTER