He held her unresisting, passive in his arms, watching her cheeks fire.

She realised, in a kind of detached way, that he was holding her so that the tips of her toes only touched the floor, and somehow that seemed of a piece with the rest.

Then he set her down, and stood apart, keeping her hands.

'It's funny,' he said, 'how one goes on year after year, quite satisfied, knowing nothing of this, meaning not to know.' She caught at the phrase and stammered, 'Perhaps that was wise.' 'It was.

For so I met you.' He released her hands, and she sank into the nearest chair.