Still there was no answer. She walked resentfully, hanging her head.
“Because I said I would be friends with Miriam!” he exclaimed.
She would not answer him anything.
“I tell you it’s only words that go between us,” he persisted, trying to take her again.
She resisted. Suddenly he strode across in front of her, barring her way.
“Damn it!” he said. “What do you want now?”
“You’d better run after Miriam,” mocked Clara.
The blood flamed up in him. He stood showing his teeth. She drooped sulkily. The lane was dark, quite lonely. He suddenly caught her in his arms, stretched forward, and put his mouth on her face in a kiss of rage. She turned frantically to avoid him. He held her fast. Hard and relentless his mouth came for her. Her breasts hurt against the wall of his chest. Helpless, she went loose in his arms, and he kissed her, and kissed her.
He heard people coming down the hill.
“Stand up! stand up!” he said thickly, gripping her arm till it hurt. If he had let go, she would have sunk to the ground.
She sighed and walked dizzily beside him. They went on in silence.
“We will go over the fields,” he said; and then she woke up.
But she let herself be helped over the stile, and she walked in silence with him over the first dark field. It was the way to Nottingham and to the station, she knew. He seemed to be looking about. They came out on a bare hill-top where stood the dark figure of the ruined windmill. There he halted. They stood together high up in the darkness, looking at the lights scattered on the night before them, handfuls of glittering points, villages lying high and low on the dark, here and there.
“Like treading among the stars,” he said, with a quaky laugh.
Then he took her in his arms, and held her fast. She moved aside her mouth to ask, dogged and low:
“What time is it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he pleaded thickly.
“Yes it does—yes! I must go!”
“It’s early yet,” he said.
