She went on staring silently into the fire, as usual, but when he came near to her she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. "I don't believe you love me, Kenneth. Goodness knows why I kiss you. I suppose it's just because I like doing it, that's all. Now don't say anything to me. Kiss me if you like, but don't speak. I hate you when you begin to talk to me." He laughed. She turned on him angrily, suddenly like a tiger. "What are you laughing at? I don't see any joke." "Neither do I. But I wanted to laugh--for some reason. Oh, if I mustn't talk to you, mayn't I even laugh? Is there nothing to be done except kiss and be kissed?" "You've started to talk. I hate you now." "I shouldn't have begun to talk if you'd let me laugh." "You're hateful." "What--because I laughed? Don't you think it's rather funny that a man may kiss his wife and yet not be allowed to talk to her?" "I think it's tragic." "Tragic things are usually funny if you're in the mood that I'm in." "It's your own fault that you're in such a hateful mood." "Is it my fault? I wasn't in the mood when I came into this room." "Then it's my fault, I presume?" "I didn't say so. God knows whose fault it is. But does it matter very much?" "Yes, I think it does." He couldn't think of anything to say. He felt all the strength and eagerness and determination and hope for the future go out of him and leave him aching and empty. And into the void--not against his will, for his will did not exist at the time--came Clare. IV Once again he knew that he loved her. A storm came over him, furious as the storm outside! he knew that he loved and wanted her, passionately this time, because his soul was aching. To him she meant the easing of all the strain within him; he could not think how it had been possible for him to go on so long without knowing it. Helen and he were like currents of different voltages; but with Clare he would be miraculously matched. For the first time in his life he recognised definitely and simply that his marriage with Helen had been a mistake. But what could he do? For with the realisation of his love for Clare came the sudden, blinding onrush of pity for Helen, pity more terrible than he had ever felt before; pity that made him sick with the keenness of it. If he could only be ruthless and leave her with as few words and as little explanation as many men left their wives! But he could not. Somehow, in some secret and subtle way, he was tied to her. He knew that he could never leave her. Something in their intimate relationship had forged bonds that would always hold him to her, even though the spirit of him longed to be free. He would go on living with her and pitying her and making her and himself miserable.