“That would take time,” she procrastinated. “We couldn’t get back before eight. Who’d put Dorrie Darling to bed?” “Don’t worry,” Ruthita broke in with eagerness. “I’d love to do it. Dorrie and I’ll take care of one another and play on the sands till bedtime.” “Yeth, do go,” lisped Dorrie. “I want Ruthita all to mythelf.” These two who had stood between us, for whose sakes we had striven to do right, were pushing wide the door that led into the freedom of temptation. A shiver ran through her. She turned. The battle against desire in her face was ended. “I will come,” she said slowly. Left in the room by myself while they went upstairs to dress, I did not think; I abandoned myself to sensations. I could hear their footsteps go back and forth above my head. The running ones were Dorrie’s. The light, quick ones were Ruthita’s. The deliberate ones, postponing and anticipating forbidden pleasures--they were Vi’s. The sound of her footsteps, so stealthy and determined, combined with the long gray sight of the German Ocean, sent my mind back to Guinevere’s description of her sinning, which covered all our joint emotions: “As if one should Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, Down to a cool sea on a summer day; Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way Until one surely reached the sea at last, And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea, all past Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips Washed utterly out by the dear waves o’ercast, In a lone sea, far off from any ships!” She entered. She was alone. The others were not yet ready. I could not speak to her. “Come,” she whispered hoarsely. Her voice had the distressed note of hurry. We hastened up the High Street like fugitives. Windows of the stern red houses were eyes. They knew all about us. They had watched my mother before me; by experience they had become wise. At the top of the town we turned to the left, going inland towards the hill on which the tower of St. Margaret’s rose gray against the sky, beyond which lay the open country. We did not walk near together, but with a foot between us. Now we slackened our pace and I observed her out of the corners of my eyes. She was dressed in white, all billowy and blowy, with a wrap of white lace thrown over her shoulders, and a broad white hat from which drooped a blue ostrich feather. Whatever had been her intention, she looked bridal. The slim slope of her shoulders was unmatronly. Her long neck curved forward, giving her an attitude of listening demureness. Her mass of hair and large hat scarcely permitted me to see her face.