And she quivered, and her own mind melted out. Sharp soft waves of unspeakable pleasure washed over her as he entered her, and started the curious molten thrilling that spread and spread till she was carried away with the last, blind flush of extremity.

He heard the distant hooters of Stacks Gate, for seven-o’clock. It was Monday morning. He shivered a little, and with his face between her breasts pressed her soft breasts up over his ears, to deafen him.

She had not even heard the hooters. She lay perfectly still, her soul washed transparent.

“You must get up, mustn’t you?” he muttered.

“What time?” came her colourless voice.

“Seven-o’clock blowers a bit sin’.”

“I suppose I must.”

She was resenting, as she always did, the compulsion from outside.