"I want shaving awfully," he said.

"What do you think your uncle would say if he knew?"

"What nonsense!" he cried. "I'm sure you slept like a top."

"Why d'you want to kiss me?"

He leaned over her, and his heart went pit-a-pat.

He knew he ought to reply: "Because I love you." But he could not bring himself to say it.

Next day after dinner they took their rugs and cushions to the fountain, and their books; but they did not read. Miss Wilkinson made herself comfortable and she opened the red sun-shade. Philip was not at all shy now, but at first she would not let him kiss her.

"Why do you think?" he asked instead.

"How smooth your face is," she murmured.

"It was very wrong of me last night," she said. "I couldn't sleep, I felt I'd done so wrong."

"There's no reason why he should know."

She looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his face with the tips of her fingers.

It was astonishing how difficult he found it to make romantic speeches. He found that silence helped him much more than words. He could look inexpressible things. Miss Wilkinson sighed.

"Why don't you let Miss Wilkinson rest?" said Mrs. Carey. "You must remember she's not as young as you."

"I don't care what she thinks."

"You mustn't have those shining eyes," she said to him afterwards. "What will your Aunt Louisa think?"

"Oh, I'd like to go out, Mrs. Carey," she said, rather acidly.

"Yes, awfully."

"I'll promise anything."

"You'll come out after supper, won't you?" he begged.

"I'm beginning to be rather frightened of you," said Miss Wilkinson.

"Not unless you promise to behave yourself."

He was catching fire from the flame he was partly simulating, and at tea-time he was obstreperously merry. Miss Wilkinson looked at him nervously.

When he tried to kiss her again she did not resist. He pretended to be much more passionate than he really was, and he succeeded in playing a part which looked very well in his own eyes.

Miss Wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. They had no sooner finished supper than he said to her: "Are you going to keep me company while I smoke a cigarette?"

"Do you like me at all?"

"Your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves sometimes," said Miss Wilkinson, as soon as they closed the side-door behind them.

Philip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted, and flung his arms round her. She tried to push him away.

"After dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a while," said the Vicar.

"Not so near the house, Philip," she said. "Supposing someone should come out suddenly?"

"You promised you'd be good, Philip."

He led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to come, and this time Miss Wilkinson did not think of earwigs. He kissed her passionately. It was one of the things that puzzled him that he did not like her at all in the morning, and only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the touch of her hand thrilled him. He said things that he would never have thought himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder and satisfaction.

"You didn't think I was going to keep a promise like that?"

That was what he thought himself.

"Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my heart!" he murmured passionately.

"How beautifully you make love," she said.

It was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said. It was only that he exaggerated a little. He was tremendously interested and excited in the effect he could see it had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at last she suggested going in.

"I must," she muttered. "I'm frightened."

"Oh, don't go yet," he cried.

"I can't go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My cheeks are burning. I want the night-air. Good-night."

He had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then.

After that things were different between them. The next day and the day after Philip showed himself an eager lover. He was deliciously flattered to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in love with him: she told him so in English, and she told him so in French. She paid him compliments. No one had ever informed him before that his eyes were charming and that he had a sensual mouth. He had never bothered much about his personal appearance, but now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with satisfaction. When he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the passion that seemed to thrill her soul. He kissed her a good deal, for he found it easier to do that than to say the things he instinctively felt she expected of him. It still made him feel a fool to say he worshipped her. He wished there were someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would willingly have discussed minute points of his conduct. Sometimes she said things that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled. He wished Hayward had been there so that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had better do next. He could not make up his mind whether he ought to rush things or let them take their time. There were only three weeks more.

He held out his hand seriously, and she took it in silence. He thought she stifled a sob. Oh, it was magnificent! When, after a decent interval during which he had been rather bored in the dark garden by himself, he went in he found that Miss Wilkinson had already gone to bed.

"I can't bear to think of that," she said. "It breaks my heart. And then perhaps we shall never see one another again."

"I daren't take the risk. It would be too dreadful if your aunt found out."

Generally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening in order to allow Mary Ann to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of attending evensong.

And when he pressed her, she said:

"Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening and offered to stay at home and look after the house, Aunt Louisa would go to church."

He proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have anything to do with them.

"Oh, why can't you be content to let it go on as it is? Men are always the same. They're never satisfied."

A day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant.

"But don't you see it's impossible. How can we here?"

"If you cared for me at all, you wouldn't be so unkind to me," he whispered.

Philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change in his views on Christianity which had occurred in Germany; they could not be expected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to church quietly. But he only went in the morning. He regarded this as a graceful concession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second time as an adequate assertion of free thought.

So after six o'clock Philip was left alone in the house with Miss Wilkinson. He felt sick with apprehension. He wished with all his heart that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must take the opportunity which he had made. What would Miss Wilkinson think of him if he did not! He went into the hall and listened. There was not a sound. He wondered if Miss Wilkinson really had a headache. Perhaps she had forgotten his suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He crept up the stairs as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they creaked. He stood outside Miss Wilkinson's room and listened; he put his hand on the knob of the door-handle. He waited. It seemed to him that he waited for at least five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. He would willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he knew would seize him. It was like getting on the highest diving-board in a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there and stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that forced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you had climbed up. Philip screwed up his courage. He turned the handle softly and walked in. He seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf.

"Certainly," said Philip.

"You'd better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that if Miss Wilkinson rings, you'll hear."

"No, I won't," she said.

"Quite sure, thank you."

"I shall be in," said Philip. "If Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she can always call me."

When he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a moment, then shook her head.

"Are you sure there's nothing you'll want?" asked Mrs. Carey anxiously.

Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some "drops" which she was herself in the habit of using. Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and immediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie down.

"Because, if there isn't, I think I'll go to church. I don't often have the chance of going in the evening."

But on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip. "I don't think I'll come to church this evening," she said suddenly. "I've really got a dreadful headache."

"Oh yes, do go."

"Oh, it's you. What d'you want?"

Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open.

She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat. It was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce. She wore a camisole of white calico with short arms. She looked grotesque. Philip's heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so unattractive; but it was too late now. He closed the door behind him and locked it.