Laurence sighed deeply. Turning, he took Mary gently in his arms, and kissed her lowered eyelids and her lips, first lightly, then lingeringly, then as she began to resist, with passionate possession.
"Don't—don't push me away," he begged. "Come near to me...."
But she was frightened, and struggled against his strong clasp, till she slipped down, bent backward over the tree-trunk, and cried out with pain and anger. Laurence released her suddenly, roughly.
"You don't love me," he said.
She got to her feet, trembling, but Laurence sat still, turning away from her.
"You don't love me," he repeated bitterly. "You'd better leave me—go back."
Without a word she moved away, her head bent, stumbling a little on the dark path. He looked after her sullenly. Yes, she would go, like that, without a word to him, without a sign.... Was she angry—was she hurt?... That silence of hers was a strong weapon. She disappeared beyond the trees.... No, he couldn't let her go like that. In a moment he overtook her.
"Take my arm," he said curtly. "The path's rough."
She took it, and they went back in silence. As they came to a street-light he looked at her, and saw the mysterious mask of her face more immobile, more impassive than ever. Doubt had come back upon him, now it was almost despair. He had a strong impulse to break with her, to tell her that he was going away. She was too elusive, too distant, too cold.... But instead, when they came to her gate, he only murmured sadly: