"Oh, Prudence!" he said, and held her, scrutinising the shadowy outline of her face, with the dear eyes, misty and starlike, gazing sadly back into his. She made a feeble effort to extricate herself from his embrace. "I don't think we ought," she said, and found herself suddenly crying, with her face pressed against his shoulder. It was altogether wrong. She knew quite well that she ought not to be there alone with him in the night. She had not allowed for his following her to Wortheton. The shock of seeing him again unnerved her. Steele soothed her and kissed the tears away. Then he started to walk again, keeping his arm about her. "We can't talk here," he said. "I've a lot of things to say to you. We'll cut across the fields and sit on that jolly stile where I discovered you picking primroses--was it really seven years ago? Seven years! My God! Prudence, what a fool I was to believe you would wait for me till that time." "I didn't know..." she faltered. "Never mind," he said quickly. "We won't speak of it. We'll wipe the years out. You are here--with me. The other is just a dream. It was yesterday that we picked primroses together, and spent the morning mooning in the woods. You were so sweet, dear. I just loved you. I so longed to kiss you that day. What a fool I was not to kiss you. I remember so well how the sunlight played on your hair. I watched it, and loved it--and you. Oh, my dear!" "Don't!" Prudence urged him. "I can't bear it. And I ought not to listen. You mustn't say these things to me--now." "But I must," he said. And added: "Now! Why not now? It's my time. As though it matters--anything. I'm not going to consider anything but just my need of you. You are mine, by every right under the sun." "No," she protested. "No! I can't let you say these things. I ought not to have come out with you. Don't make me regret coming." He was silent for a while after that; and she heard him breathing in hard deep breaths as he walked close by her side. Many emotions stirred him; passion and desire and resentment strove furiously within him, making speech difficult, and defeating his effort after control. The sense of loss, of defeat, weighed bitterly with him. He wanted her so, wanted her with an intensity that resembled hunger--wanted her urgently, savagely, with a crude, primitive, human want that was for setting aside every consideration, every civilised law and code; that was for taking the law into his own hands and making her see eye to eye with himself. And she would not see things as he wished her to. She was difficult. She was altogether too civilised. He turned to her abruptly, and snapped the silence sharply by hurling an unexpected question at her. "Why did you come out?" he asked. "What did you expect?" "I don't know," she answered, and drew a little away from him. "I think I wanted to talk to you just once more before--we parted."