Why had this woman come into his life? She had given him a supreme joy, the like of which he had never even dreamed of before; but might not that joy be too dearly purchased with the price of the contingent agony her love might bring him? One evening he went down the village street, down through the gap to the edge of the sea, where the tumbling waves were bursting with sullen roar and crash upon the shingle. The storm that had raged all the day and the previous night was dying away, slowly, as if reluctant; the wind blew in fitful gusts; the clouds scurried across the moon, which shot down intermittent beams upon the tossing waters. His life, he thought, had hitherto been calm; but now a tempest raged within him, rising in strength day by day, hour by hour, so that there was but one thing in his being—love of Marian, that first, that last, that all in all. Away from the thought of her and his passion for her he could never tear himself; it was always with him. When he painted, there was her face before him, dim but insistent. Something of her features seemed to creep even into the portrait he was painting of Agatha West. When he read, the words conveyed no thought, no sense to his mind; he was thinking of her, wondering where she was and what she was doing, with whom if not alone. She possessed him, heart, soul and body; he was all hers. More than once a frenzy of jealousy had attacked him: did she truly love him? Or was she just play-acting, fooling him, deceiving him, betraying him, laughing at him and his blind love? The impulse came on him strongly to go up to town, without warning her, and to watch—watch, unseen. But he dared not; in such a case, he thought, ignorance would be bliss compared with knowledge. At last dawned the wished-for day on which Marian was to come. He had lain tossing awake all the night. Hours yet remained to be gotten through somehow before he could set out to walk to the station. After breakfast at nine, he set about tidying the studio, filling the vases with flowers, and setting “The Rebel” in a place of honor by the window. Then in the sitting room he cleared up the litter of pipes and books, and helped to decorate the table for luncheon.