“I wish we had a light,” said Frances. She was gradually getting a grasp of the situation, and though her body felt oddly heavy and her head strangely light, her wits were recovering their customary business-like balance. “I have got a few matches,” said Montague. “Also a few cigarettes. Afraid it’s useless to attempt a fire. We should only smoke ourselves out—and possibly fire the shed as well. The only comfort we have got is a little hay, and you are lying on it.” “Where are you?” she said. “Here!” A hand suddenly touched her, and she started with involuntary shrinking. A great shivering came over her, and for a space she struggled to control her chattering teeth. “You are cold,” he said. “Yes,—dreadfully cold. But never mind! It—it’s better than being out in the open, isn’t it? You have no idea where we are?” “I lost my way,” he said moodily. She reached out to him a trembling hand, and realized that he was standing propped against the wall beside her. He stooped quickly, grasping her cold fingers. “Frances, we’ve got to face it. You may as well give in to circumstances. We’re both of us helpless.” His voice had an odd urgency. It was as if he pleaded with her. “Oh, I quite realize that,” she said, and she strove to force a practical note into her reply. “We’ve been very unlucky, but what can’t be cured must be endured. We shall come through it somehow.” She would have removed her hand, despite the physical reluctance to relinquish the warmth of his, but he held it fast. “You don’t want me to go?” he said. “Oh no!” she returned briskly. “I am not so selfish and unreasonable as that. We must just make the best of it. We must just—just——” She broke off. Her teeth were chattering again, and in the effort to check them, she forgot the words she was trying to utter. She felt him bend lower, and found him kneeling by her side. “It’s no good offering you my coat,” he said. “There’s no warmth in it. Besides, it’s wet through. But I’m not going to let you die of cold for all that—just for the sake of an idiotic convention. Frances—sweetheart—I’m going to hold you in my arms.” Fear stabbed her—sharp and agonizing. “Oh no!” she said, and drew herself back from him. “Not here! Not now!” Her hand remained locked in his, but he paused. “Why not here—and now?” he said. She gasped her quivering answer. “Because—because—I am not sure if I have done right in—in letting you make love to me. I have not been sure—all day.” “You don’t love me?” he questioned. “I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t—possibly—know yet.” “But you knew yesterday,” he said. “Ah, yesterday!” The word came almost with a cry. “I was mad yesterday,” she said. “Why mad?” he reasoned. “My dear, listen to me! Here we are—far away from everywhere—miles away from civilized society. What does it matter—what can it matter—if we throw aside these idiotic conventions just for one night? You know in your heart that it doesn’t matter one jot.”