“Why not?”

Both were watching blankly the roaring night of mid–London, the phantasmagoric old Bloomsbury Square. They were still hand in hand.

“Such as you shouldn’t marry,” he said.

“But why not? I want to.”

“You think you do.”

“Yes indeed I do.”

He did not say any more.

“Why shouldn’t I? she persisted. “I don’t know—”

And again he was silent.

“You’ve known some life, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Me? Why?”

“You seem to.”

Do I? I’m sorry. Do I seem vicious?—No, I’m not vicious.—I’ve seen some life, perhaps—in Paris mostly. But not much. Why do you ask?”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“But what do you mean? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“Don’t be so irritating,” said she.

But he did not answer, and she became silent also. They sat hand in hand.

“Won’t you kiss me?” came her voice out of the darkness.

He waited some moments, then his voice sounded gently, half mocking, half reproachful.

“Nay! “he said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?” she asked.

He laughed, but did not reply.

She sat perfectly still for some time. She had ceased to cry. In the darkness her face was set and sullen. Sometimes a spray of rain blew across it. She drew her hand from his, and rose to her feet.

“Ill go in now,” she said.

“You’re not offended, are you?” he asked.

“No. Why?”

They stepped down in the darkness from their perch.

“I wondered.”

She strode off for some little way. Then she turned and said:

“Yes, I think it is rather insulting.”

“Nay,” he said. “Not it! Not it!”

And he followed her to the gate.

She opened with her key, and they crossed the road to her door.

“Good–night,” she said, turning and giving him her hand.

“You’ll come and have dinner with me—or lunch—will you? When shall we make it?” he asked.

“Well, I can’t say for certain—I’m very busy just now. I’ll let you know.”

A policeman shed his light on the pair of them as they stood on the step.

“All right,” said Aaron, dropping back, and she hastily opened the big door, and entered.

The Lillys had a labourer’s cottage in Hampshire—pleasant enough. They were poor. Lilly was a little, dark, thin, quick fellow, his wife was strong and fair. They had known Robert and Julia for some years, but Josephine and Jim were new acquaintances,—fairly new.

One day in early spring Lilly had a telegram, “Coming to see you arrive 4:30—Bricknell.” He was surprised, but he and his wife got the spare room ready. And at four o’clock Lilly went off to the station. He was a few minutes late, and saw Jim’s tall, rather elegant figure stalking down the station path. Jim had been an officer in the regular army, and still spent hours with his tailor. But instead of being a soldier he was a sort of socialist, and a red– hot revolutionary of a very ineffectual sort.