im when he came
home again. He was black and surly, but abated. She had broken a
little of something in him. And at length he was glad to forfeit
from his soul all his symbols, to have her making love to him.
He loved it when she put her head on his knee, and he had not
asked her to or wanted her to, he loved her when she put her
arms round him and made bold love to him, and he did not make
love to her. He felt a strong blood in his limbs again.

And she loved the intent, far look of his eyes when they
rested on her: intent, yet far, not near, not with her. And she
wanted to bring them near. She wanted his eyes to come to hers,
to know her. And they would not. They remained intent, and far,
and proud, like a hawk's naive and inhuman as a hawk's. So she
loved him and caressed him and roused him like a hawk, till he
was keen and instant, but without tenderness. He came to her
fierce and hard, like a hawk striking and taking her. He was no
mystic any more, she was his aim and object, his prey. And she
was carried off, and he was satisfied, or satiated at last.

Then immediately she began to retaliate on him. She too was a
hawk. If she imitated the pathetic plover running plaintive to
him, that was part of the game. When he, satisfied, moved with a
proud, insolent slouch of the body and a half-contemptuous drop
of the head, unaware of her, ignoring her very existence, after
taking his fill of her and getting his satisfaction of her, her
soul roused, its pinions became like steel, and she struck at
him. When he sat on his perch glancing sharply round with
solitary pride, pride eminent and fierce, she dashed at him and
threw him from his station savagely, she goaded him from his
keen dignity of a male, she harassed him from his unperturbed
pride, till he was mad with rage, his light brown eyes burned
with fury, they saw her now, like flames of anger they flared at
her and recognized her as the enemy.

Very good, she was the enemy, very good. As he prowled round
her, she watched him. As he struck at her, she struck back.

He was angry because she had carelessly pushed away his tools
so that they got rusty.

"Don't leave them littering in my way, then," she said.

"I shall leave them where I like," he cried.

"Then I shall throw them where I like."

They glowered at each other, he with rage in his hands, she
with her soul fierce with victory. They were very well matched.
They would fight it out.

She turned to her