And in the dusk when his arms were about her, she was no longer child, relative, or statue. She was woman, vibrant woman. Tensed muscles and a little stifled moan. And an emotional sob, maybe, or a tear glistening on her cheek. Relaxation, and a strange, easy dignity. With her arms about her white knees, her little head upraised, thoughts seemed to be going and coming from her like bees in and out of their straw skep. And often he was tempted to ask her what she was thinking of. But he stopped himself in time. Of course she was thinking of nothing at all, barring possibly a new sherbet to be made, or whether, if they sold Fatima, the Abyssinian cook, who was becoming garrulous, would Fatima have a good home. Trifles! What was the use of asking her? And here was another possibility. She might--anything was possible--be in some deep subtle thought, into which, if he asked, he might get enmeshed, or be trapped emotionally. Better not ask. He wanted to know nothing of her heart, and to keep his. He loved her in a happy guarded way. And she loved him. When he came back after a voyage she looked at him with an amazed joy. "O Zan! Zan, dear! Is it you? Is it really you?" She would rush and hold him. What amazing strength her little arms had! And she would stand back and look at him again. "O Zan! Zan!" And she would bury her perfumed head in his shoulder to hide the glad tears. "O Zan!" "Do you know why I love you so much, Zan dear?" she once said. "Why, Fenzile?" "Because you are so big, and yet you are so gentle. And you wouldn't do a little thing, my Zan." "Don't be foolish, Fenzile!" "I am not foolish." Only once she asked him how he loved her. "I wonder--how much do you love me, my Zan?" "Oh, lots, Fenzile. A terrible lot." And he smiled. "As much as you do your ship?" "Yes, as much as I do my ship." "That is a lot, Zan.... Zan, would you miss me, if I should die?" "I should miss you terribly." "If you died, I should die, too." Her voice quavered. "Don't be silly. Of course you wouldn't." "Don't you think I would?" And she laughed with him one of her rare, rare laughs. And that was the way it all should end, in pretty laughter. Let there be none of this horrible emotionalism, this undignified welter of thought and feeling. Kindness of eyes, and pleasantness of body, but keep the heart away. Let them be--how? There wasn't a word in English, or in Gaidhlig to express it; in French there was--_des amis_, not _des amants_. Let them be that. Let there be no involution of thought and mind about it. Let there be this time no mistake.... Where before he had made his mistake with women was allowing them to become spiritually important.... Section 10