"Then you mustn't, and yet I love to think that you're a bold, bad man."
His eyes, which rarely widened, did so now, and in the gathering dusk she saw a flash of light.
"You see, it makes me feel so brave, George."
"It ought to."
There was danger in his presence and she liked invoking it; but there was a certain coarseness, also invoked by her, from which she shrank, towards which she crept, step by step, again. She made no answer to his words. In her black dress and against the darkness of the wood, she was hardly more than a face and two small hands. There was a gentle movement among the trees; they were singing their welcome of a peaceful night; the running of the stream came loudly, giving itself courage for the plunge into the wood.
Miriam spoke in a low voice. "It's getting late. The others must have gone in. They'll wonder where I am."
"And they'd be horrified, I suppose, if they knew."
She bent towards him so that he might see her reproachful face.
"You've spoilt this lovely night. You don't match the sky and stars. I wish I hadn't met you."
"You needn't have done," he said.