She had always fought hard against tears when she was with Quentin, but this afternoon her disappointment was too bitter. She realised the sour facts to which hope and trust had long blinded her--that Quentin would never win his independence, and therefore that marriage with him was impossible till his father's death. She saw how much she had unconsciously relied on Baker's acceptance of the poems, their last hope. Quentin's words had scattered a crowd of little delicate dreams, scarcely realised while she entertained them, known only as they fled like angels from the door. After those three weary years of waiting she had dreamed of being his at last--his wife, his housemate--no longer meeting him in the dark corners of woods, but his before the world, honoured and acknowledged. Now that dream was shattered--the three weary years would become four weary years, and the four, five--and on and on to six and seven. The woods would still rustle with their stealthy footsteps, their tongues still burn with lies ... she covered her face, and wept bitterly--with all the impassioned weakness of the strong. "Oh, I'm so ashamed...." "Why?" "Because I'm crying. But, Quentin, I feel broken, somehow. Our love's so great, and we're parted by such little things." "Janey, Janey...." She sobbed more dryly now--anguish was stiffening her throat. "Must we wait all those years?" he whispered. "What else can we do?" He whispered again. "Must we wait all those years?" She lifted her face, understanding him suddenly. "Quentin, you and I must do nothing to--degrade our love." "But it's degraded already--it's thwarted, and all thwarted things are degraded. If we fling aside our fears and triumph over circumstances, then it will be exalted, not degraded." She did not speak. "Janey," he continued, his voice muffled in her hands, which he held against his mouth. "You and I have been locked out of Paradise--but we can climb over the gates." She was still silent. Quentin had never spoken to her so openly before--after earlier disappointments he had sometimes hinted what he now expressed; but his love had never made her tremble; violent as it was, it was reverent. "Janey ... will you climb over the gates of Paradise with me?" "No, dear." "Why?" "Because our love's not that sort." "It's the sort that waits and is trampled on." "It's strong enough to wait." "How white your face is, Janey!--you speak brave words, but you're trembling." "Yes, I'm trembling."