She lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for herself no more. Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast.

Then she wondered, just dimly wondered, why? Why was this necessary? Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given her peace? Was it real? Was it real?

Her tormented modern–woman’s brain still had no rest. Was it real? And she knew, if she gave herself to the man, it was real. But if she kept herself for herself it was nothing. She was old; millions of years old, she felt. And at last, she could bear the burden of herself no more. She was to be had for the taking. To be had for the taking.

The man lay in a mysterious stillness. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? She did not know. He was a strange man to her, she did not know him. She must only wait, for she did not dare to break his mysterious stillness. He lay there with his arms round her, his body on hers, his wet body touching hers, so close. And completely unknown. Yet not unpeaceful. His very stillness was peaceful.

She knew that, when at last he roused and drew away from her. It was like an abandonment. He drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments, apparently adjusting his own clothing. Then he quietly opened the door and went out.

She saw a very brilliant little moon shining above the afterglow over the oaks. Quickly she got up and arranged herself she was tidy. Then she went to the door of the hut.

All the lower wood was in shadow, almost darkness. Yet the sky overhead was crystal. But it shed hardly any light. He came through the lower shadow towards her, his face lifted like a pale blotch.

‘Shall we go then?’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘I’ll go with you to the gate.’

He arranged things his own way. He locked the door of the hut and came after her.

‘You aren’t sorry, are you?’ he asked, as he went at her side.

‘No! No! Are you?’ she said.

‘For that! No!’ he said. Then after a while he added: ‘But there’s the rest of things.’

‘What rest of things?’ she said.

‘Sir Clifford. Other folks. All the complications.’

‘Why complications?’ she said, disappointed.

‘It’s always so. For you as well as for me. There’s always complications.’ He walked on steadily in the dark.

‘And are you sorry?’ she said.

‘In a way!’ he replied, looking up at the sky. ‘I thought I’d done with it all. Now I’ve begun again.’

‘Begun what?’

‘Life.’

‘Life!’ she re–echoed, with a queer thrill.

‘It’s life,’ he said. ‘There’s no keeping clear. And if you do keep clear you might almost as well die. So if I’ve got to be broken open again, I have.’