Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then Stephen looked away quickly: ‘Good night, Mary.’ ‘Stephen . . . won’t you kiss me good night? It’s our first night together here in your home. Stephen, do you know that you’ve never kissed me?’ The clock chimed ten; a rose on the desk fell apart, its over-blown petals disturbed by that almost imperceptible vibration. Stephen’s heart beat thickly. ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ ‘More than anything else in the world,’ said Mary. Then Stephen suddenly came to her senses, and she managed to smile: ‘Very well, my dear.’ She kissed the girl quietly on her cheek, ‘And now you really must go to bed, Mary.’ After Mary had gone she tried to write letters; a few lines to Anna, announcing her visit; a few lines to Puddle and to Mademoiselle Duphot—the latter she felt that she had shamefully neglected. But in none of these letters did she mention Mary. Brockett’s effusion she left unanswered. Then she took her unfinished novel from its drawer, but it seemed very dreary and unimportant, so she laid it aside again with a sigh, and locking the drawer put the key in her pocket. And now she could no longer keep it at bay, the great joy, the great pain in her heart that was Mary. She had only to call and Mary would come, bringing all her faith, her youth and her ardour. Yes, she had only to call, and yet—would she ever be cruel enough to call Mary? Her mind recoiled at that word; why cruel? She and Mary loved and needed each other. She could give the girl luxury, make her secure so that she need never fight for her living; she should have every comfort that money could buy. Mary was not strong enough to fight for her living. And then she, Stephen, was no longer a child to be frightened and humbled by this situation. There was many another exactly like her in this very city, in every city; and they did not all live out crucified lives, denying their bodies, stultifying their brains, becoming the victims of their own frustrations. On the contrary, they lived natural lives—lives that to them were perfectly natural. They had their passions like every one else, and why not? They were surely entitled to their passions? They attracted too, that was the irony of it, she herself had attracted Mary Llewellyn—the girl was quite simply and openly in love. ‘All my life I’ve been waiting for something. . . .’ Mary had said that, she had said: ‘All my life I’ve been waiting for something. . . . I’ve been waiting for you.’