She went away to the sea and Serge with her. She liked being with Serge, but even to him she could not declare herself. Under the warm sun with the strong air blowing over salt from the sea she quickly became well again, but all her longing was to get back. She was uneasy. When she had last seen Bennett she had felt that some of the glamour and delight had gone from him. He had changed. She must change with him. He had gone on. Gone deeper. She must go with him. She had never been trained to think. She never reasoned any difficulty out. All her perception of her circumstances came to her in flashes. . . . It was not long before she had caught Bennett up. She was not afraid, but only glad to be with him once more. She was proud of the new horizon that had opened to her. When health came back to her she was a woman. One evening as she sat with Serge on the sands gazing at the moon peeping above the sea and silvering the waves she said: "Serge, tell me, have you ever been in love?" "Often." "Happily?" "Happily and unhappily. It doesn't matter much. The great thing is to love." "What is love?" "A great thing, but not the be-all and end-all of existence as so many people try to believe. The greatest things lie beyond it." "Then you must go through it to get at them." "Exactly. Most people stick in the middle, or remain shivering on the wrong side." "Like Frederic?" "Like Frederic." "I used to hate Frederic, but now I'm only sorry for him." "What's come to you?" She shivered. "It's very cold. Can I go home to-morrow?" "If you like. Do you want to?" "I must." * * * She returned to the house in Burdley Park next morning, but it was some days before she informed Bennett of her arrival. He came hot-foot as soon as he had her letter, and there was an air of dogged determination about him and the embarrassment of one who has a vital topic to approach. He had made a compromise between his mental torment and his religious scruples and come to the idea of marriage, and the idea had taken complete possession of him so that he saw nothing else. The vision of the future to which it led was sufficiently entrancing to make him unwilling to look elsewhere. He did try to contemplate the future without that step, but it stretched intolerably blank. He needed action. The upheaval that had taken place in him had set him growing mentally and spiritually; in his office, in his house, he was hurt at every turn, bumping into corners where none had been before. He saw in marriage perfect freedom. It was an illusion, but he was wholly deceived by it. He saw it as a summit of achievement from which he could defy all that he had suffered all his life. He said to Annette: "Annette, I love you. I want you to marry me. We shall be very poor, but we shall have each other, and nothing else matters." This he said to convince himself. Annette did not need convincing. She believed. "No," she said, "nothing else matters."