She did not love as she had loved the first time. Then she had loved with a calmness and an acceptance which were impossible to her now. She had trusted fate and trusted the beloved, but now she was unsure of both. She was restless and tormented, and absorbed as she had never been in Martin. Her love consumed every other emotion, mental or physical--it would not let her sleep or eat or listen to music. It kept her whole being concentrated on the new force that had disturbed it--she could think of nothing but Albert Hill, and her thoughts were haggard and anxious, picturing their friendship at a standstill, failing, and lost.... Oh, she must not lose him--she could not bear to lose him--she must bind him somehow in the short time she had left. There were intervals in which she became uneasily conscious of her folly. He was thirteen years younger than she--it was ridiculous. She was a fool, after all the opportunities she'd had, to fall in love with a mere boy. But she knew in her heart that it was his youth she wanted most, partly because it was Martin's youth, partly because it called to something in her which was not youth, nor yet belonged to age--something which was wise, tender and possessive--something which had never yet been satisfied. Luckily she had health robust enough to endure the preyings of her mind, and did not bear her conflict on her face when Hill called for her the next evening. She had been inspired to wear the same clothes as before--having once pleased, she thought perhaps she would be wise not to take any risks with the purple body, and as for an evening gown, Joanna would have felt like a bad woman in a book if she had worn one. But she was still guiltily without her collar. He took her to a small restaurant on the sea-front, where half a dozen couples sat at little rosily lit tables. Joanna was pleased--she was beginning faintly to enjoy the impropriety of her existence ... dinner in a restyrong--with wine--that would be something to hold in her heart against Ellen, next time that young person became superior. Joanna did not really like wine--a glass of stout at her meals, or pale ale in the hot weather, was all she took as a rule--but there was a subtle fascination in putting her lips to the red glass full of broken lights, and feeling the wine like fire against them, while her eyes gazed over the brim at Hill ... he gazed at her over the brim of his, and somehow when their eyes met thus over their glasses, over the red wine, it was more than when they just met across the table, in the pauses of their talk. It seemed to her that he was more lover-like to-night--his words seemed to hover round her, to caress her, and she was not surprised when she felt his foot press hers under the table, though she hastily drew her own away.