He was crossed, yet he loved her violently.
“You’ve got a museau, not a face,” he said.
“Have I?” she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned—he was not satisfied.
“Why?” he asked, “why don’t you want to marry me?”
“I don’t want to be with other people,” she said. “I want to be like this. I’ll tell you if ever I want to marry you.”
“All right,” he said.
He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility.
They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment.
They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter.
They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions.