Yet a quiver of fear went through her. If he should leave her? She sat conjuring fears and sufferings, till she wept with very self-pity. She did not know what she would do if he left her, or if he turned against her. The thought of it chilled her, made her desolate and hard. And against him, the stranger, the outsider, the being who wanted to arrogate authority, she remained steadily fortified. Was she not herself? How could one who was not of her own kind presume with authority? She knew she was immutable, unchangeable, she was not afraid for her own being. She was only afraid of all that was not herself. It pressed round her, it came to her and took part in her, in form of her man, this vast, resounding, alien world which was not herself. And he had so many weapons, he might strike from so many sides. When he came in at the door, his heart was blazed with pity and tenderness, she looked so lost and forlorn and young. She glanced up, afraid. And she was surprised to see him, shining-faced, clear and beautiful in his movements, as if he were clarified. And a startled pang of fear, and shame of herself went through her. They waited for each other to speak. “Do you want to eat anything?” she said. “I’ll get it myself,” he answered, not wanting her to serve him. But she brought out food. And it pleased him she did it for him. He was again a bright lord. “I went to Nottingham,” he said mildly. “To your mother?” she asked, in a flash of contempt. “No—I didn’t go home.” “Who did you go to see?” “I went to see nobody.” “Then why did you go to Nottingham?” “I went because I wanted to go.” He was getting angry that she again rebuffed him when he was so clear and shining. “And who did you see?” “I saw nobody.” “Nobody?” “No—who should I see?” “You saw nobody you knew?” “No, I didn’t,” he replied irritably. She believed him, and her mood became cold. “I bought a book,” he said, handing her the propitiatory volume. She idly looked at the pictures. Beautiful, the pure women, with their clear-dropping gowns. Her heart became colder. What did they mean to _him_? He sat and waited for her. She bent over the book. “Aren’t they nice?” he said, his voice roused and glad. Her blood flushed, but she did not lift her head. “Yes,” she said. In spite of herself, she was compelled by him. He was strange, attractive, exerting some power over her. He came over to her, and touched her delicately. Her heart beat with wild passion, wild raging passion. But she resisted as yet. It was always the unknown, always the unknown, and she clung fiercely to her known self. But the rising flood carried her away. They loved each other to transport again, passionately and fully. “Isn’t it more wonderful than ever?” she asked him, radiant like a newly opened flower, with tears like dew. He held her closer. He was strange and abstracted.