She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Make love to the next girl you meet, and by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your arms. She’ll have need to be more than half afraid, won’t she?” She played with the leaves of the book, and did not look at him. “But,” he faltered, his eyes glowing, “it would be—rather——” “Don’t, sweet lad, don’t!” she cried laughing. “But I shouldn’t—” he insisted, “I don’t know whether I should like any girl I know to——” “Precious Sir Galahad,” she said in a mock caressing voice, and stroking his cheek with her finger, “You ought to have been a monk—a martyr, a Carthusian.” He laughed, taking no notice. He was breathlessly quivering under the new sensation of heavy, unappeased fire in his breast, and in the muscles of his arms. He glanced at her bosom and shivered. “Are you studying just how to play the part?” she asked. “No—but——” he tried to look at her, but failed. He shrank, laughing, and dropped his head. “What?” she asked with vibrant curiosity. Having become a few degrees calmer, he looked up at her now, his eyes wide and vivid with a declaration that made her shrink back as if flame had leaped towards her face. She bent down her head and picked at her dress. “Didn’t you know the picture before?” she said, in a low, toneless voice. He shut his eyes and shrank with shame. “No, I’ve never seen it before,” he said. “I’m surprised,” she said. “It is a very common one.” “Is it?” he answered, and this make-belief conversation fell. She looked up, and found his eyes. They gazed at each other for a moment before they hid their faces again. It was a torture to each of them to look thus nakedly at the other, a dazzled, shrinking pain that they forced themselves to undergo for a moment, that they might the moment after tremble with a fierce sensation that filled their veins with fluid, fiery electricity. She sought almost in panic, for something to say. “I believe it’s in Liverpool, the picture,” she contrived to say. He dared not kill this conversation, he was too self-conscious. He forced himself to reply, “I didn’t know there was a gallery in Liverpool.” “Oh, yes, a very good one,” she said. Their eyes met in the briefest flash of a glance, then both turned their faces aside. Thus averted, one from the other, they made talk. At last she rose, gathered the books together, and carried them off. At the door she turned. She must steal another keen moment: “Are you admiring my strength?” she asked. Her pose was fine. With her head thrown back, the roundness of her throat ran finely down to the bosom which swelled above the pile of books held by her straight arms. He looked at her. Their lips smiled curiously. She put back her throat as if she were drinking. They felt the blood beating madly in their necks. Then, suddenly breaking into a slight trembling, she turned round and left the room.