I + 

There comes a time in all passionate attachments when life, real life, must be faced once again with its varied and endless obligations, when the lover knows in his innermost heart that the halcyon days are over. He may well regret this prosaic intrusion, yet to him it will usually seem quite natural, so that while loving not one whit the less, he will bend his neck to the yoke of existence. But the woman, for whom love is an end in itself, finds it harder to submit thus calmly. To every devoted and ardent woman there comes this moment of poignant regretting; and struggle she must to hold it at bay. “Not yet, not yet⁠—just a little longer”; until Nature, abhorring her idleness, forces on her the labour of procreation. + 

But in such relationships as Mary’s and Stephen’s, Nature must pay for experimenting; she may even have to pay very dearly⁠—it largely depends on the sexual mixture. A drop too little of the male in the lover, and mighty indeed will be the wastage. And yet there are cases⁠—and Stephen’s was one⁠—in which the male will emerge triumphant; in which passion combined with a real devotion will become a spur rather than a deterrent; in which love and endeavour will fight side by side in a desperate struggle to find some solution. + 

Thus it was that when Stephen returned from Morton, Mary divined, as it were by instinct, that the time of dreaming was over and past; and she clung very close, kissing many times⁠— + 

“Do you love me as much as before you went? Do you love me?” The woman’s eternal question. + 

And Stephen, who, if possible, loved her more, answered almost brusquely: “Of course I love you.” For her thoughts were still heavy with the bitterness that had come of that visit of hers to Morton, and which at all costs must be hidden from Mary. + 

There had been no marked change in her mother’s manner. Anna had been very quiet and courteous. Together they had interviewed bailiff and agent, scheming as always for the welfare of Morton; but one topic there had been which Anna had ignored, had refused to discuss, and that topic was Mary. With a suddenness born of exasperation, Stephen had spoken of her one evening. “I want Mary Llewellyn to know my real home; some day I must bring her to Morton with me.” She had stopped, seeing Anna’s warning face⁠—expressionless, closed; while as for her answer, it had been more eloquent far than words⁠—a disconcerting, unequivocal silence. And Stephen, had she ever entertained any doubt, must have known at that moment past all hope of doubting, that her mother’s omission to invite the girl had indeed been meant as a slight upon Mary. Getting up, she had gone to her father’s study. + 

Puddle, who had held her peace at the time, had spoken just before Stephen’s departure. “My dear, I know it’s all terribly hard about Morton⁠—about⁠ ⁠…” She had hesitated. + 

And Stephen had thought with renewed bitterness: “Even she jibs, it seems, at mentioning Mary.” She had answered: “If you’re speaking of Mary Llewellyn, I shall certainly never bring her to Morton, that is as long as my mother lives⁠—I don’t allow her to be insulted.” + 

Then Puddle had looked at Stephen gravely. “You’re not working, and yet work’s your only weapon. Make the world respect you, as you can do through your work; it’s the surest harbour of refuge for your friend, the only harbour⁠—remember that⁠—and it’s up to you to provide it, Stephen.” + 

Stephen had been too sore at heart to reply; but throughout the long journey from Morton to Paris, Puddle’s words had kept hammering in her brain: “You’re not working, and yet work’s your only weapon.” + 

So while Mary lay sleeping in Stephen’s arms on that first blessed night of their reunion, her lover lay wide-eyed with sleeplessness, planning the work she must do on the morrow, cursing her own indolence and folly, her illusion of safety where none existed. + 