“All right,” he answered.
He would never tell her.
For three or four nights he lay alone through the white sleep, his will unchanged, unchanged, still tense, fixed in its grip. Then, as if she were revived and free to be fond of him again, deluded by his silence and seeming acquiescence, moved also by pity, she took him back again.
Each night, in spite of all the shame, he had waited with agony for bedtime, to see if she would shut him out. And each night, as, in her false brightness, she said Good-night, he felt he must kill her or himself. But she asked for her kiss, so pathetically, so prettily. So he kissed her, whilst his heart was ice.
And sometimes he went out. Once he sat for a long time in the church porch, before going in to bed. It was dark with a wind blowing. He sat in the church porch and felt some shelter, some security. But it grew cold, and he must go in to bed.
Then came the night when she said, putting her arms round him and kissing him fondly:
“Stay with me to-night, will you?”
And he had stayed without demur. But his will had not altered. He would have her fixed to him.
So that soon she told him again she must be alone.
“I don’t want to send you away. I want to sleep with you. But I can’t sleep, you don’t let me sleep.”