her the kind of thing she had supposed she wanted. One of her reasons for hating marriage had been the boring and ugly physical intimacy of so much of it. But Dane had imposed none of the things she feared upon her. She had never seen him unshaved. She had never seen him dress or undress. He had been even more fastidious and delicate than she was. He had never come near her when he was ill. She had never been asked to lift her finger to do a thing for him. And now she hated what she had thought she desired. It seemed so cold and inhuman. It made her feel she was failing him in vital ways. But there was nothing she could do about it.
That afternoon she rode through Dargaville and out to the coast. The gully was deserted, and the tent no longer there. They had been down together after the cottagers left, but the things had been brought home two weeks before. She looked at the place where she had first heard of Dane, and thought of the glorious hours they had had down there. Try as she would she could not keep from her mind the ominous sense that the glory of their adventure was departing. She galloped back and forth on the beach till she felt better.
It was gaily enough on the way home that she stopped in front of the News and whistled for her paper. She fancied Bob looked at her a little intently as he came out with it. And then as she rested before dinner she read what had happened to Dane.
III
He had left her with every intention, as he had said, of going to Roland’s Mills. He intended to get to Aoroa for the night, to make an early start, and to get round into the Otamatea and to pass their honeymooning place
