tract purity he would have done so. But he could not
kiss her thus--and she seemed to leave no other way. And she yearned to
him.

He gave a brief laugh.

"Well," he said, "get that French and we'll do some--some Verlaine."

"Yes," she said in a deep tone, almost of resignation. And she rose and
got the books. And her rather red, nervous hands looked so pitiful, he
was mad to comfort her and kiss her. But then be dared not--or could
not. There was something prevented him. His kisses were wrong for her.
They continued the reading till ten o'clock, when they went into the
kitchen, and Paul was natural and jolly again with the father and
mother. His eyes were dark and shining; there was a kind of fascination
about him.

When he went into the barn for his bicycle he found the front wheel
punctured.

"Fetch me a drop of water in a bowl," he said to her. "I shall be late,
and then I s'll catch it."

He lighted the hurricane lamp, took off his coat, turned up the bicycle,
and set speedily to work. Miriam came with the bowl of water and stood
close to him, watching. She loved to see his hands doing things. He
was slim and vigorous, with a kind of easiness even in his most hasty
movements. And busy at his work he seemed to forget her. She loved
him absorbedly. She wanted to run her hands down his sides. She always
wanted to embrace him, so long as he did not want her.

"There!" he said, rising suddenly. "Now, could you have done it
quicker?"

"No!" she laughed.

He straightened himself. His back was towards her. She put her two hands
on his sides, and ran them quickly down.

"You are so FINE!" she said.

He laughed, hating her voice, but his blood roused to a wave of flame
by her hands. She did not seem to realise HIM in all this. He might have
been an object. She never realised the male he was.

He lighted his bicycle-lamp, bounced the machine on the barn floor to
see that the tyres were sound, and buttoned his coat.

"That's all right!" he said.

She was trying the brakes, that she knew were broken.

"Did you have them mended?" she asked.

"No!"

"But why didn't you?"

"The back one goes on a bit."

"But it's not safe."

"I can use my toe."

"I wish you'd had them mended," she murmured.

"Don't worry--come to tea tomorrow, with Edgar."

"Shall we?"

"Do--about four. I'll come to meet you."

"Very well."

She was pleased. They went across the dark yard to the gate. Looking
across, he saw th