“What way pulling at you?”
“I can't get out of my head all the things I did when I was a boy there. I wasn't very happy, you know. I've told you something about it. . . . I want to go back. . . . I want to go back. I mustn't, but I want to go back—and it hurts—”
He seemed to have forgotten her—he stared out to sea, his hands holding the grass in either side of him.
She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her laughing.
“Sorry. I was thinking about things. That cottage over there with the black trees reminded me of Scaw House a little. . . . But it's all right really. I suppose every fellow has the wild side and the sober side, and I've had such a rum life and been civilised so short a time. . . .”
She said slowly: “I think I know what you mean, though. I know enough of it to be frightened of it—I don't want life to be like that. I don't suppose I've got imagination. I want it to be orderly and easy and no one to be hurt or damaged. Oh!”—her voice was suddenly like a cry—“Why can't we just go through life without any one being frightened or made miserable? I believe in cities and walls and fires and regulated emotions—all those other things can only hurt.”
“They teach courage,” Peter answered gravely. “And that's about the only thing we're here to learn, I expect. My mother died because she wasn't brave enough and I want . . . I want. . . .”
He broke off—“There's only one thing I want and that's you, Clare. You must have known all these weeks that I love you. I've loved you ever since I met you that Good Friday afternoon years ago. Let me take care of you, see that no one hurts you—love you . . . love you—”
“Do you really want me, Peter?”
He didn't speak but his whole body turned towards her, answered her question.
“Because I am yours entirely. I became yours that day when your hand touched mine. I wasn't sure before—I knew then—”
He looked at her. He saw her, he thought for the first
