?" she said.

"Why I want you?" He gave a curious laugh, almost of ridicule. "I
don't know that. You ask me another, eh?"

She was silent, sitting looking downwards.

"I can't, I think," she said abstractedly, looking up at him.

He smiled, a fine, subtle smile, like a demon's, but inexpressibly
gentle. He made her shiver as if she was mesmerized. And he was
reaching forward to her as a snake reaches, nor could she recoil.

"You come, Allaye," he said softly, with his foreign intonation.
"You come. You come to Italy with me. Yes?" He put his hand on her,
and she started as if she had been struck. But his hands, with the
soft, powerful clasp, only closed her faster.

"Yes?" he said. "Yes? All right, eh? All right!"--he had a strange
mesmeric power over her, as if he possessed the sensual secrets, and
she was to be subjected.

"I can't," she moaned, trying to struggle. But she was powerless.

Dark and insidious he was: he had no regard for her. How could a
man's movements be so soft and gentle, and yet so inhumanly
regardless! He had no regard for her. Why didn't she revolt? Why
couldn't she? She was as if bewitched. She couldn't fight against
her bewitchment. Why? Because he seemed to her beautiful, so
beautiful. And this left her numb, submissive. Why must she see him
beautiful? Why was she will-less? She felt herself like one of the
old sacred prostitutes: a sacred prostitute.

In the morning, very early, they left for Scarborough, leaving a
letter for the sleeping Tommy. In Scarborough they went to the
registrar's office: they could be married in a fortnight's time. And
so the fortnight passed, and she was under his spell. Only she knew
it. She felt extinguished. Ciccio talked to her: but only ordinary
things. There was no wonderful intimacy of speech, such as she had
always imagined, and always craved for. No. He loved her--but it was
in a dark, mesmeric way, which did not let her be herself. His love
did not stimulate her or excite her. It extinguished her. She had to
be the quiescent, obscure woman: she felt as if she were veiled. Her
thoughts were dim, in the dim back regions of consciousness--yet,
somewhere, she almost exulted. Atavism! Mrs. Tuke's word would play
in her mind. Was it atavism, this sinking into extinction under the
spell of Ciccio? Was it atavism, this strange, sleep-like submission
to his being? Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was. But it was also heavy
and sweet and rich. Somewhere, she wa