“For the moment of passion, of course. Honour thy moments of passion and keep them holy. But O, Gerald Loughlin,” she added mockingly, “this you cannot understand, for you are not a lover; you are not, no, you are not even a good swimmer.” Her mockery was adorable, but baffling. “I do not understand you,” he said. Now why in the whole world of images should she refer to his swimming? He _was_ a good swimmer. He was silent for a long time and then again he began to speak of marriage, urging her to give up her project and leave Lizzie in her simple peace. Then, not for the first time, she burst into a strange perverse intensity that may have been love but might have been rage, that was toned like scorn and yet must have been a jest. “Lovely Gerald, you must never marry, Gerald, you are too good for marriage. All the best women are already married, yes, they are—to all the worst men.” There was an infinite slow caress in her tone but she went on rapidly. “So I shall never marry you, how should I marry a kind man, a good man? I am a barbarian, and want a barbarian lover, to crush and scarify me, but you are so tender and I am so crude. When your soft eyes look on me they look on a volcano.” “I have never known anything half as lovely,” he broke in. Her sudden emotion, though controlled, was unconcealed and she turned away from him. “My love is a gentleman, but with him I should feel like a wild bee in a canary cage.” “What are you saying!” cried Gerald, putting his arms around her. “Orianda!” “O yes, we do love in a mezzotinted kind of way. You could do anything with me short of making me marry you, anything, Gerald.” She repeated it tenderly. “Anything. But short of marrying me I could make you do nothing.” She turned from him again for a moment or two. Then she took his arm and as they walked on she shook it and said chaffingly, “And what a timid swimmer my Gerald is.” But he was dead silent. That flux of sensations in his mind had taken another twist, fiery and exquisite. Like rich clouds they shaped themselves in the sky of his mind, fancy’s bright towers with shining pinnacles.