nothing to do with it. She had you for--two years, wasn't it?"

"Two years, Kitty."

"Poor thing; and I shall have you all my life."

"Yes. And so, if you don't mind, dear, I'd rather you didn't talk about
that again."

"I'm sorry. I won't ever again."

She sat silent for a moment in a sort of penitential shame. Then she
burst out--

"I'm not jealous. But, Robert, if you were to leave me for another woman
it would kill me. I daren't say that to any other man if I cared for
him. It would just make him go and do it. But I believe somehow you'd
think twice before you killed me."

He only smiled at this, and spoke gently.

"Yes, Kitty, you're right. I believe I _would_ think twice about it."

He said to himself that this fierceness, her passionate perversity, all
that was most unintelligible in her, was just Kitty's way--the way of a
woman recklessly, adorably in love. It stirred in him the very depths of
tenderness. When she was married (they must marry very soon) she would
be happy; she would understand him; she would settle down.

He looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I must be going."

She glanced at the hands of the watch over his shoulder. "You needn't,"
she said. "It isn't really time."

"Well--five minutes."

The five minutes went. "Time's up," he said.

"Oh, no, Robert--not yet."

"Kitty--don't you want to see them?"

"I don't want you to go."

"I'm coming back."

"Yes, but it won't be the same thing. It never will be the same thing as
now."

"Poor Kitty--I say, I _must_ go and meet them."

"Very well." She stood up. "Kiss me," she said.

She took his kiss as if it were the last that would be given her.

They went together to the hotel. Jane had started five minutes ago for
the station.

"It's all right," he said. "I'll catch her up."

She followed to the gates and looked down the white road where Jane had
gone.

"Let me come with you--just a little way--to the first lamp-post on the
station road."

"Well, to the first lamp-post."

At the lamp-post she let him go.

She stood looking after him till he swung round the turn of the road,
out of her sight. Then she went back, slowly, sad-eyed, and with a great
terror in her heart.

CHAPTER XVII

It was not the thing she had confessed to him, fear of his little unseen
children, it was terror, unconfessed, uncomprehended, as it were
foreknowledge of the very soul of destiny clothed for her in their
tender flesh and blood.