Had the conversation really taken place? Had they exchanged those cold commonplaces, those absurd phrases that should have meant so much? Had he known Gertrude less well, he might have been touched by the appearance of the limitless faith she had in him, by her blind and serene confidence that was not capable of being disturbed. But he knew her better than that. He was hardly so much as a shadow in her life, and when a second shadow appeared beside hers she did not notice it. She seemed to have no sense of possession, no sexual pride. Her mental poise was like some people’s idea of heaven, a place of beautiful and boundless indifference misnamed “sacred love,” a state that was guilty of no preferences, no passions, no anguish, no divine despair. And then there leapt in him a sudden and subtle exultation. This splendid comradeship that life was offering to him, what could be cried against it, what was there that could be condemned? It touched no one but their two selves, could hurt no one. The one woman who might have complained was being robbed of nothing that she desired. As for marriage, he had tried it, and saw that it served a certain need. For five years he had lived the life of a celibate, and the god in him was master of the beast. He thought no such thoughts of Eve. She was sunlight, perfumes, the green gloom of the woods, water shining in the moonlight, all the music that was and would be, all the fairy tales that had been told, all the ardour of words spoken in faith. She was one whose eyes could quench all the thirsts of his manhood. To be with her, to be hers, was sufficient. Canterton was hardly conscious of the physical part of himself, as he took a path along one of the cypress walks, passed out by a wicket gate, and crossed the road into the fir woods. Dusk had fallen, but there was still a faint grey light under the trees, and there was no undergrowth, so that one would walk along the woodland aisles as along the aisles of a church. A feeling of exultation possessed him. The very stillness of the woods, the darkness that began to drown all distances, were personal and all-enveloping. A light was shining in one of the lower windows of the little house at Orchards Corner when Canterton came to the gate at the end of the lane. He paused there, leaning his arms on the gate. The blind was up and the curtain undrawn, and he could see Eve sitting at a table, and bending over a book or writing a letter. Canterton crossed the lawn and stood looking in at the lighted window. Eve was sitting at the table with her back towards him, and he saw the outline of her head, and the glow of the light upon her hair. She was wearing a blouse cut low at the throat, and he could see the white curve of her neck as she bent over the table. There were books and papers before her. She appeared to be reading and making notes. He spoke her name. “Eve!”