you're not really with me. But it isn't as it was once. The peace and sweetness of it is gone …"
He spoke almost dreamily, as though the whole thing were remote, objective, and he looked at Teresa as though she were miles away.
"We shall get it back," said Teresa.
"No … never …"
"Then we shall get something better. Peace and sweetness aren't all … what I see," she said, still with her eyes closed and the tears on her cheeks, "is that what we have is the main thing, the best thing. I feel now that it can't be destroyed, neither by what I do nor by what you do … You take me with my weaknesses, as I take you with yours. I don't say it will be all peace and sweetness—we're too near one another for that. I suppose you will often hurt or irritate me—perhaps I shall hurt or irritate you. I don't want to do it—but I can't promise that I shan't—I promise, though, to leave you as free as possible."
"But I can't promise to leave you free," said Basil darkly.
"No matter."
"No—you mean you'll take as much freedom as you want. But what I can't endure is suspecting you."
With sudden violence he took up a letter that had been lying on his desk and threw it into Teresa's lap. She saw Crayven's writing on the en-
