“But I don’t like idleness, Richard; no use pretending I do; you should not have married some one so restless as I.” His hands were upon her shoulders; she wanted to shake them off. “Did the poacher ...” began Calladine. “Ah, leave Lovel alone,” she cried; “what impels you to speak of him this morning? Leave him alone, with his wife and his baby; they can very well look after themselves without any interest from us.” “But, Clare, Mrs. Quince was speaking of them; it’s only natural that my thoughts should continue to run in that direction; and even you yourself....” “You’re fascinated by the subject of Lovel,” she said, whirling round on him, “now, aren’t you? own to it. You always bring him in: the Downs, the circus, and now his baby,--everything’s an excuse for bringing in Lovel. And why? Is it because he took me out of the circus-tent that night? is it because I rode with him? why not speak out what’s at the back of your mind?” “But, Clare, Clare! why so fierce and challenging suddenly? there’s nothing at the back of my mind.” (“There is,” she thought, “and you too great a coward to face it out.”) “Come now, don’t let us quarrel and we won’t speak of Lovel if it offends you,--will that satisfy you?” “It’s of no importance whether we speak of a man in the village or not,” she said, turning away and hunching her shoulders. They went back to sit by the fire, a bulk of hostility unspoken between them. Calladine felt peevish; his indolent, graceful, vaguely amorous morning had been spoilt; and spoilt by what? by the presence of Lovel. “You’ve never yet shaken off that lean rogue,” he broke out once, sudden and querulous after a spell of silence. They both sat staring into the fire, separate as they could be. They had not previously spoken of Lovel, not directly, not insistently; only to range round him with that nagging, niggling hesitation that seemed to pull at Calladine. But now his presence blocked every other road of conversation; he got in the way, he was near, he could not be got rid of. Almost, he was in the room. Calladine looked at Clare; fair and slight, delicate even, but so unafraid. A touch, and she was instantly up and all-daring. She kindled at a spark. What was it that she and Lovel had in common? the same apparent frailty of body, the same flame of spirit,--Calladine had all the lyricism to clothe his perceptions with words. He had apprehended Lovel; on the rare occasion when he had seen him, he had apprehended him fully, to his own disquietude. And he apprehended Clare and their resemblance, with pain and resentment. They were two fine and vulnerable things, he thought; vulnerable and brave. But he thought it with only half of his brain, the lyrical, romantic half; with the other half he was peevish and irritated.