He had her in his arms. On her soft lips was all the bittersweet of their long separation, of their mirth together, of their absurd and precious passion, denied by men and ratified by crickets. It was the perfect embrace of those who are no longer children, who can sweeten the impossible by mocking it a little. The tingling triumph of social farce, undreamed by poor candid Nature--the first illicit kiss! “I suppose,” she said tremulously, “that this really is what they call a Guilty Passion.” “My dear, my dear. What a queer world, where one has to apologize for loving people.” As though down a long avenue of distance he saw her in the perspective of her life: an exquisite gallant figure going about her brave concerns: so small and resolute in her single struggle with the world, and coming to his arms at last. He knew then that poets have not lied; that fairy tales are true; that life is hunger, and for every emptiness caters its own just food. Her mind that he had loved was tangled up with a body. Chastity was probably a much overrated virtue. For her sake, if she desired it, he was willing to make the heroic effort which is necessary to yield to temptation. He held her close, in silence. Austere resolutions slipped away like sand in an hour glass. For an instant his only thought was a silly satisfaction that she must reach so far upward to meet his lips. His mind taunted him for thinking this. “Dear fool, dear damned fool,” he said. “Yes, you’re just as you should be: lips cool and eyelids warm. And as soft as I always imagined. Oh, it’s not fair that any one should be so soft. Joyce, do you know why I had to have you here? It’s just a year ... you remember?” “Yes. The day you were looking out of the window. How long it seems.” “We begin to feel like a nice old unmarried couple.” She laughed, her rare broken laugh. “Oh, George, then it _is_ really you. The Fourth you, I mean. I couldn’t quite believe it.” Voices came down from the loft. First it was Martin: ... “That’s what I like about her. She looks as if she’s happy inside.” Then Ruth, with a scornful snicker: “Happy? I dare say. Did you see the way she looked at George at the dinner table? That kind of woman’s always happy with someone else’s husband.” There was an inaudible murmur, then Ben’s voice: “It’s a form of nervousness.” Joyce drew back from his arms. Her eyes were dark with horror. “Oh ...” she said with a sob. “Why are people so ... so _inadequate_.” Ruth’s little sneer, falling on them like a crystal spirt of poison, burned George’s bare heart.