“Yes. That sounds horrible to you, I suppose, and I'm quite ready to admit that it's my cowardice. Cornwall frightens me. When I was there as a tiny girl it was just the same. I always hated it.” “I don't believe you're ever frightened at anything.” “I am. I'm under such a disadvantage, you see. If I'd been white-faced and haggard every one would have thought it quite natural that I should scream if I were left in the dark or hate being left alone with those horrible black rocks that Cornwall's so full of, but just because I'm healthy and was taught to hold my back up at school I have to pretend to a bravery that simply doesn't exist--” He rejected, for the moment the last part of her sentence. “Oh, but I understand perfectly what you mean by your fear of Cornwall. Of course I understand it although I love the place with all my soul and body. But it is terrifying--almost the only terrifying place that civilisation has left to us--Central Africa is nothing to it--” “Are you afraid of it?” she said, looking at him intently. “Tremendously--because I suppose it won't let me alone. It's difficult to put into words, but I think what I mean is that I want to go on now in London, writing and seeing people and being happy and it's pulling at me all the time.” “What way pulling at you?” “I can't get out of my head all the things I did when I was a boy there. I wasn't very happy, you know. I've told you something about it.... I want to go back.... I want to go back. I mustn't, but I want to go back--and it hurts--” He seemed to have forgotten her--he stared out to sea, his hands holding the grass on either side of him. She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her laughing. “Sorry. I was thinking about things. That cottage over there with the black trees reminded me of Scaw House a little.... But it's all right really. I suppose every fellow has the wild side and the sober side, and I've had such a rum life and been civilised so short a time....” She said slowly: “I think I know what you mean, though. I know enough of it to be frightened of it--I don't want life to be like that. I don't suppose I've got imagination. I want it to be orderly and easy and no one to be hurt or damaged. Oh!”--her voice was suddenly like a cry--“Why can't we just go through life without any one being frightened or made miserable? I _believe_ in cities and walls and fires and regulated emotions--all those other things can only hurt.” “They teach courage,” Peter answered gravely. “And that's about the only thing we're here to learn, I expect. My mother died because she wasn't brave enough and I want ... I want....” He broke off--“There's only one thing I want and that's you, Clare. You must have known all these weeks that I love you. I've loved you ever since I met you that Good Friday afternoon years ago. Let me take care of you, see that no one hurts you--love you ... love you--” “Do you really want me, Peter?”