and plates, by his puckered brow and lips. He was like a child,
and she did not wish to see him so. If he continued simple, she might
grow fond of him, and that, she thought, would be disloyalty to Zebedee.
To marry George without love, affection, friendship or respect was only
to pay the price he had demanded; but to feel kindness for him, even
that human kindness she could seldom refuse to any one, was to make the
sacrifice less complete, to cloud, in some way, the honesty of the eyes
which would have to look at Zebedee when he learnt what she had done.

"It's kind, George, but don't do it."

"I'm slow, but I can manage."

"Splendidly, but I can do it."

"You can't do everything."

Her face was pinched as she said, "I'm glad to do it."

He straightened the big back he was bending in her service. "Let me
help. I'll be here to light the kitchen fire tomorrow."

"There's no need: Mrs. Samson is coming, I've promised to have her every
day."

"Samson is my man."

"I know." Lines were beginning to show between her brows. "George,
nobody need be told."

Again he straightened himself, but now he seemed to threaten with his
bulk. "I'd feel safer if you weren't so secret."

"Can't you trust me?" she said. "How often must I ask you that?"

He had a slow way of flushing to the eyes. "I'm sorry," he said humbly,
as he used his thumb nail on a plate.

She was irritated by his meekness, for now he was not childlike. She
felt his thoughts circling round her in a stubborn determination to
possess, even, if it must be, through his own submission, but she hated
him less for that than for his looks, which, at that moment, were
without definite sex. He looked neither man nor woman: his knees were
slightly bent; his face was red, and his nail still scraped patiently on
the plate. Since she must marry him, she would have him as masculine as
he could be, so that therein she might find shelter from the shame of
being yoked to him.

Her cheeks grew cold in amazement at her own thought, and her mind
shrank from it. She felt that all the blood in her body was dropping to
her feet, and they were heavy as she moved towards the door.

"Are you going?" he asked her.

"I must watch for the doctor."

She had the mind of a slave, she told herself, the mind of a slave, and
she deserved no better than to be one.

She wrapped a grey cape about her and sat outside the garden gate. The
wind was strong enough to lean against, stronger