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instead by running over the list of his gifts and acquirements；
his knowledge of Greek and Latin； his knowledge
of art and literature； his skill in the management of meters；
and his ancient westcountry blood。 But the feeling that
underlay all these feelings and puzzled him profoundly
and kept him silent was the certainty that he loved
Katharine as sincerely as he had it in him to love any
one。 And yet she could speak to him like that！ In a sort
of bewilderment he lost all desire to speak； and would
quite readily have taken up some different topic of conversation
if Katharine had started one。 This； however；
she did not do。
He glanced at her； in case her expression might help
him to understand her behavior。 As usual； she had quickened
her pace unconsciously； and was now walking a little
in front of him； but he could gain little information from
her eyes； which looked steadily at the brown heather； or
from the lines drawn seriously upon her forehead。 Thus
to lose touch with her； for he had no idea what she was
thinking； was so unpleasant to him that he began to talk
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about his grievances again； without； however； much conviction
in his voice。
“If you have no feeling for me； wouldn’t it be kinder to
say so to me in private？”
“Oh； William；” she burst out； as if he had interrupted some
absorbing train of thought； “how you go on about feelings！
Isn’t it better not to talk so much； not to be worrying always
about small things that don’t really matter？”
“That’s the question precisely；” he exclaimed。 “I only
want you to tell me that they don’t matter。 There are
times when you seem indifferent to everything。 I’m vain；
I’ve a thousand faults； but you know they’re not everything；
you know I care for you。”
“And if I say that I care for you； don’t you believe me？”
“Say it； Katharine！ Say it as if you meant it！ Make me
feel that you care for me！”
She could not force herself to speak a word。 The heather
was growing dim around them； and the horizon was blotted
out by white mist。 To ask her for passion or for certainty
seemed like asking that damp prospect for fierce blades of
fire； or the faded sky for the intense blue vault of June。
He went on now to tell her of his love for her； in words
which bore； even to her critical senses； the stamp of truth；
but none of this touched her； until； ing to a gate
whose hinge was rusty； he heaved it open with his shoulder；
still talking and taking no account of his effort。 The
virility of this deed impressed her； and yet； normally； she
attached no value to the power of opening gates。 The
strength of muscles has nothing to do on the face of it
with the strength of affections； nevertheless； she felt a
sudden concern for this power running to waste on her
account； which； bined with a desire to keep possession
of that strangely attractive masculine power； made
her rouse herself from her torpor。
Why should she not simply tell him the truth—which
was that she had accepted him in a misty state of mind
when nothing had its right shape or size？ that it was
deplorable； but that with clearer eyesight marriage was
out of the question？ She did not want to marry any one。
She wanted to go away by herself； preferably to some
bleak northern moor； and there study mathematics and
the science of astronomy。 Twenty words would explain
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Night and Day
the whole situation to him。 He had ceased to speak； he
had told her once more how he loved her and why。 She
summoned her courage； fixed her eyes upon a lightning
splintered ashtree； and； almost as if she were reading a
writing fixed to the trunk； began：
“I was wrong to get engaged to you。 I shall never make
you happy。 I have never loved you。”
“Katharine！” he protested。
“No； never；” she repeated obstinately。 “Not rightly。 Don’t
you see； I didn’t know what I was doing？”
“You love some one else？” he cut her short。
“Absolutely no one。”
“Henry？” he demanded。
“Henry？ I should have thought； William； even you—”
“There is some one；” he persisted。 “There has been a
change in the last few weeks。 You owe it to me to be
honest； Katharine。”
“If I could； I would；” she replied。
“Why did you tell me you would marry me； then？” he
demanded。
Why； indeed？ A moment of pessimism； a sudden con
viction of the undeniable prose of life； a lapse of the
illusion which sustains youth midway between heaven
and earth； a desperate attempt to reconcile herself with
facts—she could only recall a moment； as of waking from
a dream； which now seemed to her a moment of surrender。
But who could give reasons such as these for doing
what she had done？ She shook her head very sadly。
“But you’re not a child—you’re not a woman of moods；”
Rodney persisted。 “You couldn’t have accepted me if you
hadn’t loved me！” he cried。
A sense of her own misbehavior； which she had succeeded
in keeping from her by sharpening her consciousness
of Rodney’s faults； now swept over her and almost
overwhelmed her。 What were his faults in parison with
the fact that he cared for her？ What were her virtues in
parison with the fact that she did not care for him？
In a flash the conviction that not to care is the uttermost
sin of all stamped itself upon her inmost thought； and
she felt herself branded for ever。
He had taken her arm； and held her hand firmly in his；
nor had she the force to resist what now seemed to her
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his enormously superior strength。 Very well； she would
submit； as her mother and her aunt and most women；
perhaps； had submitted； and yet she knew that every
second of such submission to his strength was a second
of treachery to him。
“I did say I would marry you； but it was wrong；” she
forced herself to say； and she stiffened her arm as if to
annul even the seeming submission of that separate part
of her； “for I don’t love you； William； you’ve noticed it；
every one’s noticed it； why should we go on pretending？
When I told