She could not discipline her attitude towards him--sometimes she was composed, distant even in her thoughts; at others a kind of delirious excitement possessed her, she flushed and held down her head in his presence, could not speak to him, and groped blindly for escape. She would, on these occasions, end by returning to Rye, but away from Reuben a restless misery tormented her, driving her back to Odiam. She sometimes asked herself if she loved him, and in cold blood there was only one answer to that question--No. What she felt for him was not love, but obsession--if she had never loved she might have mistaken it, but with her memories of Harry she could not. And the awful part of it was that her heart was still Harry's, though everything else was Reuben's. Her desires, her thoughts, her will were all Reuben's--by a slow remorseless process he was making them his own--but her heart, the loving, suffering part of her, was still Harry's, and might always be his. She was not continuously conscious of this--sometimes she forgot Harry, sometimes he repulsed her, often she was afraid of him. But in moments of quiet her heart always gave her the same message, like distant music, drowned in a storm. One day she was in the dairy at Odiam, skimming the cream-pans. The sunshine, filtered to a watery yellow by the March afternoon, streamed in on her, putting a yellow tinge into her white skin and white apron. Her hair was the colour of fresh butter, great pats and cakes of which stood on the slabs beside her. There was a smell of butter and standing milk in the cold, rather damp air. Naomi skimmed the cream off the pans and put it into a brown bowl. Suddenly she realised that Reuben had come into the dairy, and was standing beside her, a little way behind. "Hullo, Ben," she said nervously--it was one of her nervous days. "How's the cream to-day?" "Capital." He dipped his finger into the pan, and sucked it. "Oughtn't it to stand a bit longer?" "I don't think so." "Taste it----" He dipped his finger again, and suddenly thrust it between her lips. She drew her head away almost angrily, and moved to the next pan. Then he stooped and kissed her quite roughly on the neck, close to the nape. She cried out and turned round on him, but he walked out of the dairy. For a moment Naomi stood stockish, conscious only of two sensations in her body--the taste of cream on her lips, and a little cold place at the back of her neck. She began to tremble, then suddenly the colour left her cheeks, for in the doorway of the wash-house, three yards off, stood Harry. He did not move, and for some unaccountable reason she felt sure that he knew Reuben had kissed her. A kind of sickness crept up to her heart; she held out her hands before her, and tottered a little. She felt faint. "Harry!" she called. He came shuffling up to her, and for a moment stood straining his blind eyes into her face. "Harry--will you--will you take this basin of cream to your mother?"