She stood up quickly as his arms fell from her waist. This sudden, most domestic, diversion was a relief. She began to prepare the meal, and he crouched by the fire and watched her.
"You shall pour out tea, love—then we'll do things in the grand style, and smash the tea-pot."
While she waited for the tea to draw she came over to the mirror above the fireplace and began to arrange her hair. The firelight played on her as she stood there, her arms lifted, her head thrown back, half her face in shadow, half flushed in the glow.
"Janey, you are the symbol of Love—all light and darkness and disarray. It's cruel of you to stand like that—it's profane. For you're not Love, you're morality."
"It's funny, Quentin, but you never can understand my reasons for what I do—it's because they're not poetic enough, I suppose."
"You don't seem to have any reasons at all—only a moral sense."
He rose and went to sit at the table, resting his chin on his hands. She came behind him and bent over him.
"Dear one, I've seen such a lot of unhappy love that I've made up my mind ours shall be different.... I refuse you because I love you too much."
Quentin sighed impatiently.
"If I did what you ask," continued Janey tremulously, "our love would die."