He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman, trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of every sound outside.

To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still. Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast.

When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their suède slippers and in silence went away to the end of the room, where he stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then he turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the fire.

“And now, I suppose you’ll hate me!” he said in a quiet, inevitable way. She looked up at him quickly.

“Why should I?” she asked.

“They mostly do,” he said; then he caught himself up. “I mean⁠ ⁠… a woman is supposed to.”

“This is the last moment when I ought to hate you,” she said resentfully.

“I know! I know! It should be so! You’re frightfully good to me.⁠ ⁠…” he cried miserably.

She wondered why he should be miserable. “Won’t you sit down again?” she said. He glanced at the door.

“Sir Clifford!” he said. “Won’t he⁠ ⁠… won’t he be⁠ ⁠… ?” She paused a moment to consider. “Perhaps!” she said. And she looked up at him. “I don’t want Clifford to know⁠ ⁠… not even to suspect. It would hurt him so much. But I don’t think it’s wrong, do you?”