“We are not young twice,” he said, trying to laugh. “No ... but that’s true of the young as well as of the old.” He would not understand her. She withdrew a pace from him and steeled herself. “You want me to marry Nick,” she said, and went on: “You know what it means, and that he doesn’t love me. And you know what that means.” “I think he does love you.” “Physically.... I’m going to say it, father. I’m going to be straight this once.... A girl can tell what a man’s thinking about her. And if it’s ... what Nick thinks ... it’s like being stripped--there--in the middle of the room.” When her breath came more evenly, she said: “And when you think that the girl was once a little child extraordinarily in touch with Christ, made for sunshine and flowers, and warm affection--almost a part of Him, wondering for the first time about stars and distances, and so--without fear--about death, and love, and time----” She broke off. “That’s the chance, the raw material of the spirit. And then fear creeps in, and the craving for power--they creep into the nursery. We start compromising because others compromise; we are cruel in self-defence, evil for the sake of good--and our motives are confused until we don’t know what’s right or wrong. Our seeing of Christ is out of focus, and we talk--honestly as honesty goes--of a man’s being ‘too Christian,’ of ‘adapting Christianity to the needs of the day.’ And so at last I don’t think badly of you for wanting me to go--in there.” She made a gesture towards the room where Ordith was. “I make excuses for you. It seems quite reasonable. And, more amazing, you don’t think badly of me for consenting.... Yes,” she added, meeting his quick glance, “I do consent. You needn’t worry.” IV She returned to Ordith with high confidence. The Chinese boy who had laid the table was sent to her father with tea, and she gave orders that a tray should be taken to her mother’s room. When the boy had gone, she leaned over the fire with hands outstretched. “Cold?” Ordith said. “Sit by the fire, then--there, on that long thing. I’ll manage tea.” From his chair he could look down upon her. For a time they scarcely spoke. He was content to watch her; she to submit. His empty cup tinkled on the saucer as he set it down. “Do smoke.” He leaned forward. “Have you forgiven me?” “Yes.” She would not give him the pleasure of a fight. “Quite?” “Quite.” Unprepared for this acquiescence, he was disconcerted. She smiled as, without looking at him, she became aware that he was ill at ease. For the last time, perhaps, he was suppliant now. Soon no mysteries would divide him from her. Soon---- But she liked him for being afraid, for his embarrassment, his momentary helplessness. “You old fool, Nick!” “For doubting? Then--Margaret, I’m ghastly afraid of frightening you. But I do love you. I do love you, Margaret. You’re different from me--on a different plane--that’s what makes it difficult. But I love you, body and soul. Margaret----”