He must be mad. Yet it seemed an intelligible kind of madness: some unrecognized but urgent meaning sang inside it like a sweet old tune. In the misty moonlight she saw the great wheel of Time spinning so fast that its dazzling spokes seemed to shift and rotate backward. But her mind still intoned its own jubilee: If Phyllis loves _him_, I can love George. It’s all right for me to love George. Be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors! “Bunny Richmond, of course. She’s playing some kind of hide-and-seek round here. It’s not fair.” “It _is_ fair!” cried Bunny passionately. He could hear her calling to him from somewhere just round the corner of the path. “Oh, Martin, Martin, can’t you see? I can’t _tell_ you, you’ve got to find out for yourself.” Bunny had cried out so eagerly that even Joyce almost heard her. She turned to look. “What was that, someone whispering?” “It’s only Bunny,” he said impatiently. “She’s playing tricks on me. She wants me to go away.” Joyce had stepped out of the shadow, and now Martin partly saw. “Why, I know who you are. Why ... why, of course. They called you Miss Clyde, that fooled me. You’re not Miss Anybody, you’re Joyce ... the one who gave me the mouse. _You_ don’t love me too, do you? People only love you when they want you to do things.” Bunny kept calling him, but he closed his ears to her. “No, I don’t love you,” she said slowly. “I love George.” But she had to look at him again to be sure. He was very beautiful and perplexed. Perhaps she loved everybody. For an instant she thought he _was_ George; she could see now that there was a faint resemblance between them. Then she noticed that George was there too. He had come along the path from the stable. His face was sharpened with resolve. He paid no attention to Martin, but spoke directly to her. “Here’s your scarf,” he said, almost roughly, holding it out. Then he remembered it was not hers, and thrust it in his pocket. He made an uncertain step toward her. “Oh, we can’t go on like this,” he said harshly. “This has got to....” He made a queer awkward gesture with his arms. She went to them. “How funny you are,” observed Martin from the shadow. “First you want to push her away and then you hug her.” Apparently George did not hear him. “Why did you wake me?” he was asking her. “Why couldn’t I go on sleepwalking through life? If I had never known you, how much anguish I’d have missed. Oh, my poor dear.” “You mustn’t talk to her like that,” said Martin. “This is Joyce, she thinks once is enough. She isn’t like Phyllis.” “Go away, Martin,” called Bunny. “It’s no use now.” George held her fiercely. His voice trembled on broken words of tenderness. His bewildered mind craved the ease of words, a little peace, a little resting time. Must this glory of desire be carried for ever secret in his heart? “You’ll hurt her,” said Martin angrily.