But the kiss that she had received fired her blood and she could not resist now from doing as she had wished. She kissed him on the lips, and on the eyes, and she kissed his curly hair. But at last she tore herself away, and sprang to her feet. “What fools we are! Let’s go to the station, Gerald; it’s growing late.” “Oh, Bertha, don’t go yet.” “We must. I daren’t stay.” He tried to take her in his arms, begging her eagerly to remain. “Please don’t, Gerald,” she said. “Don’t ask me, you make me too unhappy. Don’t you see how hopeless it is? What is the use of our loving one another? You’re going away in a week and we shall never meet again. And even if you were staying, I’m married and I’m twenty-six and you’re only nineteen. My dearest, we should only make ourselves ridiculous.” “But I can’t go away. What do I care if you’re older than I? And it’s nothing if you’re married: you don’t care for your husband and he doesn’t care two straws for you.” “How do you know?” “Oh, I saw it. I felt so sorry for you.” “You dear boy!” murmured Bertha, almost crying. “I’ve been dreadfully unhappy. It’s true, Edward never loved me--and he didn’t treat me very well. Oh, I can’t understand how I ever cared for him.” “I’m glad.” “I would never allow myself to fall in love again. I suffered too much.” “But I love you with all my heart, Bertha; don’t you see it? Oh, this isn’t like what I’ve felt before; it’s something quite new and different. I can’t live without you, Bertha. Oh, let me stay.” “It’s impossible. Come away now, dearest; we’ve been here too long.” “Kiss me again.” Bertha, half smiling, half in tears, put her arms round his neck and kissed the soft, boyish lips. “You are good to me,” he whispered. Then they walked to the station in silence; and eventually reached Chelsea. At the flat-door Bertha held out her hand and Gerald looked at her with a sadness that almost broke her heart, then he just touched her fingers and turned away. But when Bertha was alone in her room, she threw herself down and burst into tears. For she knew at last that she loved him; Gerald’s kisses still burned on her lips and the touch of his hands was tremulous on her arms. Suddenly she knew that she had deceived herself; it was more than friendship that held her heart as in a vice; it was more than affection; it was eager, vehement love. For a moment she was overjoyed, but quickly remembered that she was married, that she was years older than he--to a boy nineteen a women of twenty-six must appear almost middle-aged. She seized a glass and looked at herself; she took it to the light so that the test might be more searching, and scrutinised her face for wrinkles and for crow’s feet, the signs of departing youth. “It’s absurd,” she said. “I’m making an utter fool of myself.”