She pressed her clasped hands against her throat. "I love him. I loved him before I promised to marry you. I love him still. No one could help doing that, I think. But it's different now. It has to be. I'm not his wife. I went to say--I went there, and I said good-bye to all that. I came back to you. You needn't be afraid--or jealous any more. I'm your wife, George, and I'll do my share. I promise." She started on her walk again, and still he watched the small, white feet. "And I'm not outraged by what you've said," she went on in a voice he had not heard so coldly clear. "Men like you are so ready with abuse. Have you always been virtuous? You ask what you would never allow me to claim." He looked up. "Since I married you--since I loved you--And I never will." She laughed a little. "And I won't either. That's another bargain, but I know--I know too much about temptation, about love, to call lovers by bad names. And if you don't, it's your misfortune, George. I think you'd better go home and think about it." He made an uncertain movement. He was like a child, she thought; he had to be commanded or cajoled, and her heart softened towards him because he was dumb and helpless. "Let us be honest friends," she pleaded. "Yes, honest, George. I know I've talked a lot of honesty, and I had no right; but now I think I have, because I've told you everything and we can start afresh. I thought I was better than you, but now I know I'm not, and I'm sorry, George." He looked up. "Helen--" "Well?" She was on her knees before him, and her hands were persuading his to hold them. He muttered something. "I didn't hear." "I beg your pardon," he said again, and, as she heard the words, she laughed and cried out, "No, no! I don't want you to say that! You've to possess me. Honour me, too, but always possess me!" She leaned back to look at him. "That's what you must do. You are that kind of man, so big and strong and--and stupid, George! Love me enough, and it will be like being buried in good earth. Can't you love me enough?" Her eyes were luminous and tender. She was fighting for two lives, for more that might be born. "Buried? I don't know what you mean," he said; "but come you here!" Her face was crushed against him, and it was indeed as though she were covered by something dark and warm and heavy. She might hear beloved footsteps, now and then, but they would not trouble her. Down there, she knew too much to be disturbed, too much to be hurt for ever by her lover's pain: he, too, would know a blessed burying. It was not she who heard the opening of the bedroom door, but she felt herself being gently pushed from George's breast, and she had a strange feeling that some one was shovelling away the earth which she had found so merciful. "No," she said. "Don't. I like it." "Helen!" she heard George say, and she turned to see Mildred Caniper on the threshold.