His arm is stealing round the waist again; it is
tightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the
round cheek; his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for a
long moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aught
he knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be
Eros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche--it is all one.

There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beating
hearts till they came within sight of the gate at the end of the wood.
Then they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, for
in their eyes there was the memory of a kiss.

But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the
fountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomfortable. He took his arm
from Hetty's waist, and said, "Here we are, almost at the end of the
Grove. I wonder how late it is," he added, pulling out his watch.
"Twenty minutes past eight--but my watch is too fast. However, I'd
better not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your little feet,
and get home safely. Good-bye."

He took her hand, and looked at her half-sadly, half with a constrained
smile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet; but he
patted her cheek and said "Good-bye" again. She was obliged to turn away
from him and go on.

As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to put
a wide space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitage
again; he remembered how he had debated with himself there before
dinner, and it had all come to nothing--worse than nothing. He walked
right on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely was
haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes--there was
something enervating in the very sight of them; but the strong knotted
old oaks had no bending languor in them--the sight of them would give
a man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings in
the fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the twilight
deepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare looked
black as it darted across his path.

He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: it
was as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to dispute
his mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He
no sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequences of giving way to
the emotions which had stolen over