She did not resist, but the wonder of their first kiss did not come again. Instead, through his mind, crippling his arms, flashed the picture of his own red passion—and that in his arms chilled him to the heart. Utterly passive, she had allowed him to wound himself in a way that would never be forgotten.
He felt suddenly small and altered before her. He drew back, lowering his eyes from her face, his hand reaching behind him until he found the arm of his chair. He sat down, covering his face.
Presently she came and touched his hands, whispering:
"Do not grieve—I was thinking of something. Do not grieve. I do not care for you less. A woman loves the boy—the boy-tumult in a man—"
"You were in my arms—and yet I was alone," he said strangely. "I never knew such a sudden loneliness—all that I had for you—flung back to me—"
"I would not have hurt you so. But suddenly as you held me—I thought of the many little ones waiting for a sign—"
He was still shocked at the lifelessness which had confronted his passion. The shame of his untimely bestowal did not pass.
His life had seemed full of perfect gifts for her, and a sudden desire had blinded him, bringing down upon his head a rebuke more magic than any blow.
"You have made me afraid," he said dully. "It could never happen again. I could not go to you so again—unless you held out your arms—"
"After you have entered the Inner Temple," she whispered.