"That's my love, sweet, sweet thing—my love for you. It never sates, it always burns, it tortures, it maddens. There is no rest, no rest in my love—it wakes me from my sleep to long for you—it is a hunger that gnaws through all my meals—it is a darkness that may be felt, a light too blinding to be borne...."
His shoulders shook, and tears rushed scalding into Janet's eyes. With one hand she stroked and tangled his coarse hair, the other he had seized and laid under his cheek—and she felt one burning tear upon it. Her whole heart seemed to open itself to her lover in tender pity, and not only to him, but to all men—men, with their fierceness in desire and gentleness in satiety, with their terrible sudden temptations, their weakness and nobleness, their beasthood and their godhead. Men struck her—had always struck her—as intensely pathetic; and now Quentin and his love wrung her breast with tears. Before that storm of hungry love she bowed her head in mute homage—she worshipped him as he lay there on her knees.
He lifted himself suddenly. Darkness was creeping fast into the woods, with little shivering gasps.
"Janey, before you go, there's something I want particularly to ask you. Next Tuesday week my father's going to London for the day. He won't be back till late—I want you to come to Redpale when he's gone."
"Redpale ... but there are the servants, Quentin."
"They're all right. I'll send the girls over to Grinstead in the afternoon; there'll only be the men about the farm, and they needn't trouble us."
"But...."
"Oh, there's your brothers, of course," he cried harshly; "can't you get away from them for one afternoon?"
"Yes, I can.... I don't know why I said 'But.'"
"You mustn't say 'But'—Janey, do you realise that you and I have never had a meal together?"