In the west, behind them, the sky began to burn. Little tongues of flame licked the edges of black clouds. Mists writhed and drove across the sinking sun. Peter stood up in his seat, looking back; it was a glimpse of hell. He glanced ahead--everything over there was blackness. Trees looked blasted; they bowed their heads. Roads and fields were empty. There was no life, no color in the meadows. “We're in for it,” he said. Rain began to patter, softly at first. Wind was getting up and breathed across the country in a long sigh. He spread a coat across the golden woman's shoulders. She didn't thank him. Gathering the reins more firmly in her hands, she whipped up the horses. Their heads were bent together. Behind them, out of ear-shot on the back-seat, the guard huddled. She spoke. “We're going to be late. I intended we should be late. I wanted to get rid of the others. I knew that you'd stick by me.” And again she said, “You were talking of women not being kind.---- Men aren't kind to the women who love them.” She had changed. Her face had sharpened out of its contentment. Usually its expression was lazy and laughing, but now----. Pain had come into it. It was intense and thin with purpose; it was purpose she had always lacked. He tried to find a word for the new thing that he found in her. Was it only the distortion that the storm was working? A flash of lightning slit the heavens; it ripped the clouds like a red-hot blade. A shattering crash! The dynamite of the gods exploding! Darkness came down. Another flash! Trees leant forward, like fugitives with arms extended. And she--her face was white and dominant. It looked beautiful and Medusa-like--snakes of loosened hair blew about it. She no longer crouched her head. She sat tall and defiant, the rain splashing down on her. What strength she had in her hands! She held in the quivering horses, speaking to them now harshly, now caressingly. They pricked up their ears, listening for her voice. He found the word for the new thing that had come to her. It was passion. “Come nearer. What did you mean when you told me you had guessed my secret?” “The Faun Man----” She took him up. “Yes, Lorie--he and I had our first quarrel this morning. We've both wasted our lives, waiting for something--something that could never happen.” “Why never?” “Because I can't bring myself to--not in his way. He told me this morning----. It doesn't matter what he told me. It hurt me to hear him speak like that, so strongly and quietly and sadly. Lorie and I, we've drifted--let life slip by. We've wakened; we're tired.” Then, like a child, appealing against injustice. “He said I hadn't a heart--that I was made of stone, not like other women. It's not true that I'm different--is it, Peter?” And again, “Is it, Peter?” And then, “It hurt to be blamed for not giving--giving what would be his to take, if he were the right man.” “The right man! That's what Cherry says. How does a woman know who is the right man?”