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John Lefolle stood by in silent torture. As he helplessly watched her white throat swell and fall with the sobs, he was suddenly struck by the absence of the black velvet band–the truer mourning she had worn in the lifetime of the so lamented. A faint scar, only perceptible to his conscious eye, added to his painful bewilderment.

At last she rose and walked unsteadily forward. He followed her in mute misery. In a moment or two they found themselves on the outskirts of the deserted heath. How beautiful stretched the gorsy rolling country! The sun was setting in great burning furrows of gold and green–a panorama to take one’s breath away. The beauty and peace of Nature passed into the poet’s soul.

‘Forgive me, dearest,’ he begged, taking her hand.

She drew it away sharply. ‘I cannot forgive you. You have shown yourself in your true colours.’

Her unreasonableness angered him again. ‘What do you mean? I only came in accordance with our long-standing arrangement. You have put me off long enough.’

‘It is fortunate I did put you off long enough to discover what you are.’

He gasped. He thought of all the weary months of waiting, all the long comedy of telegrams and express letters, the far-off flirtations of the cosy corner, the baffled elopement to Paris. ‘Then you won’t marry me?’

‘I cannot marry a man I neither love nor respect.’

‘You don’t love me!’ Her spontaneous kiss in his sober Oxford study seemed to burn on his angry lips.

‘No, I never loved you.’

He took her by the arms and turned her round roughly. ‘Look me in the face and dare to say you have never loved me.’

His memory was buzzing with passionate phrases from her endless letters. They stung like a swarm of bees. The sunset was like blood-red mist before his eyes.

‘I have never loved you,’ she said obstinately.

‘You–!’ His grasp on her arms tightened. He shook her.

‘You are bruising me,’ she cried.

His grasp fell from her arms as though they were red-hot. He had become a woman beater.