woman, what a woman
to taste and enjoy. Ah, what a woman to enjoy! And was it not his
privilege? Had he not gained it?

His manhood, or rather his maleness, rose powerfully in him, in a sort
of mastery. He felt his own power, he felt suddenly his own virile title
to strength and reward. Suddenly, and newly flushed with his own male
super-power, he was going to have his reward. The woman was his reward.
So it was, in him. And he cast it over in his mind. He wanted her--ha,
didn't he! But the husband sat there, like a soap-stone Chinese monkey,
greyish-green. So, it would have to be another time.

He rose, therefore, and took his leave.

"But you'll let us do that again, won't you?" said she.

"When you tell me, I'll come," said he.

"Then I'll tell you soon," said she.

So he left, and went home to his own place, and there to his own remote
room. As he laid his flute on the table he looked at it and smiled. He
remembered that Lilly had called it Aaron's Rod.

"So you blossom, do you?--and thorn as well," said he.

For such a long time he had been gripped inside himself, and withheld.
For such a long time it had been hard and unyielding, so hard and
unyielding. He had wanted nothing, his desire had kept itself back, fast
back. For such a long time his desire for woman had withheld itself,
hard and resistant. All his deep, desirous blood had been locked, he had
wanted nobody, and nothing. And it had been hard to live, so. Without
desire, without any movement of passionate love, only gripped back in
recoil! That was an experience to endure.

And now came his desire back. But strong, fierce as iron. Like the
strength of an eagle with the lightning in its talons. Something to
glory in, something overweening, the powerful male passion, arrogant,
royal, Jove's thunderbolt. Aaron's black rod of power, blossoming again
with red Florentine lilies and fierce thorns. He moved about in the
splendour of his own male lightning, invested in the thunder of the male
passion-power. He had got it back, the male godliness, the male godhead.

So he slept, and dreamed violent dreams of strange, black strife,
something like the street-riot in Milan, but more terrible. In the
morning, however, he cared nothing about his dreams. As soon as it was
really light, he rose, and opened his window wide. It was a grey, slow
morning. But he saw neither the morning nor the river nor the woman
walking on the gravel river-bed with her goose nor t