Now this was exactly the reason for which least of all she wanted him to come, and a trace of her mortification may have been visible, because he asked immediately if that did not please her. "Guy, don't you want to come to church? You used to come happily, didn't you?" "I think I came chiefly to be near you," he said. "That does make me so unhappy. I'd almost rather you came out of politeness to Father." "Well, that was another reason," Guy admitted. "And you never came because you wanted to?" she asked miserably. "Of course I wanted to." "But because you believed?" "In what?" "Oh, Guy, don't be so cruel. Don't you believe in anything?" "I believe in you," he said. "Pauline, I believe in you so passionately that when I am with you I believe in what you believe." "Then you haven't any faith?" "I want to have it," said Guy. "If God won't condescend to give it to me...." he broke off with a shrug. "But religion is either true, or it isn't true, and if it isn't true, why do you encourage me in lies?" she demanded with desperate entreaty. "I'm ready to believe," he said. "How can you expect to have faith if your reason for it is merely to sit next me in church?" she asked bitterly. "Now, I think it's you who are being cruel," said Guy. "I don't care. I don't care if I am cruel. You'll break my heart." "Good God," Guy exclaimed. "Haven't I enough to torment me without religion appearing upon the scene? If you want me to hate it ... no, Pauline, I'm sorry ... you mustn't think that I don't long to have your faith. If I only could ... oh, Pauline, Pauline." She yielded to his consolation, and when he told her of the poems sent back almost by return of post from the second publisher she must open wide her compassionate arms. Nevertheless he had somehow maltreated their love; and Pauline was aware of a wild effort to prepare for sorrow whether near at hand or still far off she did not know, but she seemed to hear it like a wind rising at sunset. ANOTHER SPRING _March_ When the poems were returned by three publishers within the first fortnight of March, Guy was inclined to surrender his vocation and to think about such regular work as would banish the reproach he began to fancy was now perceptible at the back of everybody's eyes. The weather was abominably cold, and even Plashers Mead itself was no longer the embodiment of the old enthusiasm. Already in order to pay current expenses he was drawing upon the next quarter, and the combination of tradesmen's books with icy draughts curling through the house produced an atmosphere of perpetual exasperation. It always seemed to be coldest on Monday morning and Miss Peasey _would_ breathe over his shoulder while he was adding up the bills. "We apparently live on butter," he grumbled. "Oh, no, it was really lamb you had yesterday," the housekeeper maintained irrelevantly. "I said we apparently live on butter," Guy shouted.