"It's an old house, with big square windows, and there's a rising copse behind it." "I know," Helen said. "There's a little stream that falls into the road." "Does it run inside the garden?" "That's what I'm not sure about." "It must." He put his hand on her shoulder. "We could peep through the windows. Are you coming?" "I don't know," she said and there was a fluttering movement in her throat. "Don't you think it's rather dangerously near the road?" "We could lock the gate," he said. She dropped her face into her hands. "No, I can't come. I'm afraid. It's tempting things to happen." "It has been empty for a long time," he went on in the same quiet tones. "I should think we could get it cheap." She looked up again. "And I shall have a hundred pounds a year. That would pay the rent and keep the garden tidy." He turned on her sharply. "Mind, I'm going to buy your clothes!" "I can make them all," she said serenely. She leaned against him. "We love each other--and we know so little about each other. I don't even know how old you are!" "I'm nearly thirty-one." "That's rather old. You must know more than I do." "I expect I do." A faint line came between her eyebrows. "Perhaps you have been in love before." "I have." His lips tightened at the memory. "Very much in love?" "Pretty badly." "Then I hope she's dead!" "I don't know." "I can't bear her to be alive. Oh, Zebedee, why didn't you wait for me?" "I should have loved you less, child." "Would you? You never loved her like this?" "She wasn't you." In a little while she said, "I don't understand love. Why should we matter so much to each other? So much that we're afraid? Or do we only think we do? Perhaps that's it. It can't matter so much as we make out, because we die and it's all over, and no one cares any more about our little lives." On a sigh he heard her last words. "We mustn't struggle." "Struggle?" "For what we want." To this he made no answer, but he had a strange feeling that the firm, fine body he held was something more perishable than glass and might be broken with a word. He took her to the moor, but when they passed the empty house she would not look at it. "The stream does run through the garden," he said. "We could sail boats on it." And he added thoughtfully, "We should have to dam it up somewhere to make a harbour." CHAPTER XIX