She was free now. And he too was free—free from dubieties and hesitations, strange and foolish suspicions of her—free from fear. How simple everything was, after all! By what strange ways they had come, to find each other—not knowing until this last moment the real meaning of their lives.... 2 “It’s beginning to snow again,” said Rose-Ann, rousing herself and looking out of the window. And then—“What have you told Clive Bangs about me?” “Not very much,” he confessed. “I suppose because of Clive’s manner about his own girls—or girl, I should say; it’s been a particular one for a long time now. He alludes to her, discusses her in an impersonal way, but he has never even told me her name. A queer sort of futile secrecy—Which reminds me of a curious story about him.” And he told her Eddie Silver’s drunken tale of the building of the house. “This house we are going to?” “Yes—if the story’s true.” “So that’s why he became a woman-hater.” “Perhaps not quite so bad as that. I should say it made him a Utopian.” “It’s the same thing,” said Rose-Ann. “It’s curious,” she added, “how many men nowadays—particularly interesting men—are afraid of women; afraid that being really in love will ruin their career, commercialize their art, or something—Are you afraid of me, Felix?” “Not any more,” he laughed. “Why, were you ever?” “Afraid you didn’t really care for me,” he said. “Yes, you _were_ rather shy! But I liked you for it. And it was just as well, until I had made up my own mind.” “How did you come to make up your mind? Why did you decide to marry me?” “Shall I tell you?” “Yes, tell me.” “It was partly your love-letters—” “Did I write love-letters to you? I suppose I did—but I tried awfully hard not to!” “Beautiful love-letters! And then—being at home: that more than anything else made me realize that I was in love with you. I had thought so before, but then I was sure of it. And—well, it seemed stupid not to make something of our two lives. Why should we keep on being afraid to try?...” “Were you afraid, too, Rose-Ann?” “Yes. But I’m not any more. We’re going to be very happy, and you’re going to be a very great man and write wonderful things....” He stirred uneasily. “Don’t put our happiness on that basis, please. Suppose I don’t write wonderful things!” “But you will!” He sighed. “That makes me realize that I am a little afraid of you, Rose-Ann. Afraid you will make me have a career!” “Don’t you want a career? I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.” “That’s just it. I’m afraid you are going to make me do all the things I do want to! Things I would otherwise just dream of doing!” “Is that prospect so terrifying?” “Yes, rather.” “Poor dear!” She pressed his hand in hers. “I suppose I _am_ a terrible person. I can’t do the things I want to do myself; and so I’m going to insist on your doing them—is that it?” “I have the feeling that you expect a terrible lot from me,” he said.