those letters from her? as though there was something to hide! What was there to hide? What possible antagonism could there be? Yet it was by such little things that their love was now like some once valued possession that had been in brutal hands, it was scratched and chipped and tarnished, it was on its way to being altogether destroyed. Her manner had changed towards him, a gulf was opening that he might never be able to close again.
"No, it shall not be!" he said, "it shall not be!"
But how to get back to the old footing? how to efface the things he had said, the things that had been done?
Could they get back?
For a moment he faced a new possibility. Suppose they could not get back! Suppose the mischief was done! Suppose that when he slammed the door behind him it locked, and was locked against him for ever!
"But we must!" said Lewisham, "we must!"
He perceived clearly that this was no business of reasoned apologies. He must begin again, he must get back to emotion, he must thrust back the overwhelming pressure of every-day stresses and necessities that was crushing all the warmth and colour from their lives. But how? How?
He must make love to her again. But how to begin—how to mark the change? There had been
