I + 

Through the long years of life that followed after, bringing with them their dreams and disillusions, their joys and sorrows, their fulfilments and frustrations, Stephen was never to forget this summer when she fell quite simply and naturally in love, in accordance with the dictates of her nature. + 

To her there seemed nothing strange or unholy in the love that she felt for Angela Crossby. To her it seemed an inevitable thing, as much a part of herself as her breathing; and yet it appeared transcendent of self, and she looked up and onward towards her love⁠—for the eyes of the young are drawn to the stars, and the spirit of youth is seldom earthbound. + 

She loved deeply, far more deeply than many a one who could fearlessly proclaim himself a lover. Since this is a hard and sad truth for the telling; those whom nature has sacrificed to her ends⁠—her mysterious ends that often lie hidden⁠—are sometimes endowed with a vast will to loving, with an endless capacity for suffering also, which must go hand in hand with their love. + 

But at first Stephen’s eyes were drawn to the stars, and she saw only gleam upon gleam of glory. Her physical passion for Angela Crossby had aroused a strange response in her spirit, so that side by side with every hot impulse that led her at times beyond her own understanding, there would come an impulse not of the body; a fine, selfless thing of great beauty and courage⁠—she would gladly have given her body over to torment, have laid down her life if need be, for the sake of this woman whom she loved. And so blinded was she by those gleams of glory which the stars fling into the eyes of young lovers, that she saw perfection where none existed; saw a patient endurance that was purely fictitious, and conceived of a loyalty far beyond the limits of Angela’s nature. + 

All that Angela gave seemed the gift of love; all that Angela withheld seemed withheld out of honour: “If only I were free,” she was always saying, “but I can’t deceive Ralph, you know I can’t, Stephen⁠—he’s ill.” Then Stephen would feel abashed and ashamed before so much pity and honour. + 

She would humble herself to the very dust, as one who was altogether unworthy: “I’m a beast, forgive me; I’m all, all wrong⁠—I’m mad sometimes these days⁠—yes, of course, there’s Ralph.” + 

But the thought of Ralph would be past all bearing, so that she must reach out for Angela’s hand. Then, as likely as not, they would draw together and start kissing, and Stephen would be utterly undone by those painful and terribly sterile kisses. + 

“God!” she would mutter, “I want to get away!” + 

At which Angela might weep: “Don’t leave me, Stephen! I’m so lonely⁠—why can’t you understand that I’m only trying to be decent to Ralph?” So Stephen would stay on for an hour, for two hours, and the next day would find her once more at The Grange, because Angela was feeling so lonely. + 

For Angela could never quite let the girl go. She herself would be rather bewildered at moments⁠—she did not love Stephen, she was quite sure of that, and yet the very strangeness of it all was an attraction. Stephen was becoming a kind of strong drug, a kind of anodyne against boredom. And then Angela knew her own power to subdue; she could play with fire yet remain unscathed by it. She had only to cry long and bitterly enough for Stephen to grow pitiful and consequently gentle. + 

“Stephen, don’t hurt me⁠—I’m awfully frightened when you’re like this⁠—you simply terrify me, Stephen! Is it my fault that I married Ralph before I met you? Be good to me, Stephen!” And then would come tears, so that Stephen must hold her as though she were a child, very tenderly, rocking her backwards and forwards. + 

They took to driving as far as the hills, taking Tony with them; he liked hunting the rabbits⁠—and while he leapt wildly about in the air to land on nothing more vital than herbage, they would sit very close to each other and watch him. Stephen knew many places where lovers might sit like this, unashamed, among those charitable hills. There were times when a numbness descended upon her as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her cheek lightly, she would not respond, would not even look round, but would just go on staring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt queerly uplifted, and turning to the woman who leant against her shoulder, she said suddenly one day: + 

“Nothing matters up here. You and I are so small, we’re smaller than Tony⁠—our love’s nothing but a drop in some vast sea of love⁠—it’s rather consoling⁠—don’t you think so, beloved?” + 

But Angela shook her head: “No, my Stephen; I’m not fond of vast seas, I’m of the earth earthy,” and then: “Kiss me, Stephen.” So Stephen must kiss her many times, for the hot blood of youth stirs quickly, and the mystical sea became Angela’s lips that so eagerly gave and took kisses. + 

But when they got back to The Grange that evening, Ralph was there⁠—he was hanging about in the hall. He said: “Had a nice afternoon, you two women? Been motoring Angela round the hills, Stephen, or what?” + 

He had taken to calling her Stephen, but his voice just now sounded sharp with suspicion as his rather weak eyes peered at Angela, so that for her sake Stephen must lie, and lie well⁠—nor would this be for the first time either. + 

“Yes, thanks,” she lied calmly, “we went over to Tewkesbury and had another look at the abbey. We had tea in the town. I’m sorry we’re so late, the carburettor choked, I couldn’t get it right at first, my car needs a good overhauling.” + 

Lies, always lies! She was growing proficient at the glib kind of lying that pacified Ralph, or at all events left him with nothing to say, nonplussed and at a distinct disadvantage. She was suddenly seized with a kind of horror, she felt physically sick at what she was doing. Her head swam and she caught the jamb of the door for support⁠—at that moment she remembered her father. + 