back again.

Each night, in spite of all the shame, he had waited with
agony for bedtime, to see if she would shut him out. And each
night, as, in her false brightness, she said Good night, he felt
he must kill her or himself. But she asked for her kiss, so
pathetically, so prettily. So he kissed her, whilst his heart
was ice.

And sometimes he went out. Once he sat for a long time in the
church porch, before going in to bed. It was dark with a wind
blowing. He sat in the church porch and felt some shelter, some
security. But it grew cold, and he must go in to bed.

Then came the night when she said, putting her arms round him
and kissing him fondly:

"Stay with me to-night, will you?"

And he had stayed without demur. But his will had not
altered. He would have her fixed to him.

So that soon she told him again she must be alone.

"I don't want to send you away. I want to sleep
with you. But I can't sleep, you don't let me sleep."

His blood turned black in his veins.

"What do you mean by such a thing? It's an arrant lie. I
don't let you sleep----"

"But you don't. I sleep so well when I'm alone. And I can't
sleep when you're there. You do something to me, you put a
pressure on my head. And I must sleep, now the child is
coming."

"It's something in yourself," he replied, "something wrong in
you."

Horrible in the extreme were these nocturnal combats, when
all the world was asleep, and they two were alone, alone in the
world, and repelling each other. It was hardly to be borne.

He went and lay down alone. And at length, after a grey and
livid and ghastly period, he relaxed, something gave way in him.
He let go, he did not care what became of him. Strange and dim
he became to himself, to her, to everybody. A vagueness had come
over everything, like a drowning. And it was an infinite relief
to drown, a relief, a great, great relief.

He would insist no more, he would force her no more. He would
force himself upon her no more. He would let go, relax, lapse,
and what would be, should be.

Yet he wanted her still, he always, always wanted her. In his
soul, he was desolate as a child, he was so helpless. Like a
child on its mother, he depended on her for his living. He knew
it, and he knew he could hardly help it.

Yet he must be able to be alone. He must be able to lie down
alongside the empty space, and let be. He must be able to leave
himself to the flood, to sink or live as might be. For he
r