"I've been a brute and there's an end of it." He was deriving a secret pleasure from his self-depreciation. There was bliss in humiliating himself before her, in grovelling at the feet of her whom he adored. If he could not get the conventional thrill from the confession of past affairs and failings, he would achieve the ecstasy of self-torture by laying bare a loftier mistake. But she laughed at him. "Silly Billy," she said. "Pay the waiter and I'll tell you." She told him as they drove back together in their taxi. "After all," she began, "compare my work with yours. Mine is drudgery. Yours is big and important. It doesn't matter what becomes of mine, but it matters a lot what becomes of yours, I hate mine and I love yours. I want to give myself up to yours, to make it easier and better. Can't you see, Martin dear, that isn't selfishness or unselfishness. Those words don't count in such a case. If we love, then I'm you and you're me, and one person can't give to himself or take away from himself surely." "It sounds so specious," he said. "And yet I still feel greedy, as though I were denying your right to be yourself." "I don't want to be myself. I want to be different. I'm as greedy as you are and more so, only differently. As it is, the word isn't real. We're both giving and both taking and there's an end of it." He was silent for a moment. "It's no use my trying to say how perfect you are," he said at last. "Dear, delightful, serious, conscience-stricken gloomkins," she laughed at him. "What does all this matter ... how we share things, I mean? The only real thing is enthusiasm, wanting and feeling and loving. You were at a loose end until you began to feel; you couldn't work, you couldn't do anything. Nor could I. And now work is all changed and seems better and easier. The office is a palace for me, India a pleasure garden for you. Do stop worrying and be sensible." "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try and be good. You're always right. This taxi goes far too fast. We're in your street." "Bother," she said. "Let's tell him to drive on somewhere else and come back in another one." "No. You've spent far too much and we've done that often enough. I'm going to be a good girl to-night." "Tyrant." "Wastrel." "He's stopping. One more kiss." Through streets that more than ever resembled enchanted pathways in a forest of shadow and silver, Martin went back exulting to his hotel. IX It was the second week in January when Martin went down to The Steading: he merely stayed to collect books and clothes and returned at once to London. While he was there he told his uncle and aunt that he was engaged to be married. That night John Berrisford discussed the matter with his wife. "Well," he began, "what about our young Martin?" "I suppose it's all right," said Mrs Berrisford quietly. "He's very young, but that seems to be the fashion nowadays."