week。”
“Cottages are to be had—yes；” she replied。 “The question
is—” She checked herself。 “Two rooms are all I should
want；” she continued； with a curious sigh； “one for eating；
one for sleeping。 Oh； but I should like another； a
large one at the top； and a little garden where one could
grow flowers。 A path—so—down to a river； or up to a
wood； and the sea not very far off； so that one could hear
the waves at night。 Ships just vanishing on the horizon—”
She broke off。 “Shall you be near the sea？”
“My notion of perfect happiness；” he began； not replying
to her question； “is to live as you’ve said。”
“Well； now you can。 You will work； I suppose；” she continued；
“you’ll work all the morning and again after tea
and perhaps at night。 You won’t have people always ing
about you to interrupt。”
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“How far can one live alone？” he asked。 “Have you tried
ever？”
“Once for three weeks；” she replied。 “My father and
mother were in Italy； and something happened so that I
couldn’t join them。 For three weeks I lived entirely by
myself； and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in
a shop where I lunched—a man with a beard。 Then I
went back to my room by myself and—well； I did what I
liked。 It doesn’t make me out an amiable character； I’m
afraid；” she added； “but I can’t endure living with other
people。 An occasional man with a beard is interesting；
he’s detached； he lets me go my way； and we know we
shall never meet again。 Therefore； we are perfectly sincere—
a thing not possible with one’s friends。”
“Nonsense；” Denham replied abruptly。
“Why ‘nonsense’？” she inquired。
“Because you don’t mean what you say；” he expostulated。
“You’re very positive；” she said； laughing and looking at
him。 How arbitrary； hottempered； and imperious he was！
He had asked her to e to Kew to advise him； he then
told her that he had settled the question already； he then
proceeded to find fault with her。 He was the very opposite
of William Rodney； she thought； he was shabby； his clothes
were badly made； he was ill versed in the amenities of life；
he was tonguetied and awkward to the verge of obliterating
his real character。 He was awkwardly silent； he was
awkwardly emphatic。 And yet she liked him。
“I don’t mean what I say；” she repeated goodhumoredly。
“Well—？”
“I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard
in life；” he answered significantly。
She flushed。 He had perated at once to the weak
spot—her engagement； and had reason for what he said。
He was not altogether justified now； at any rate； she was
glad to remember； but she could not enlighten him and
must bear his insinuations； though from the lips of a man
who had behaved as he had behaved their force should
not have been sharp。 Nevertheless； what he said had its
force； she mused； partly because he seemed unconscious
of his own lapse in the case of Mary Datchet； and thus
baffled her insight； partly because he always spoke with
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force； for what reason she did not yet feel certain。
“Absolute sincerity is rather difficult； don’t you think？”
she inquired； with a touch of irony。
“There are people one credits even with that；” he replied
a little vaguely。 He was ashamed of his savage wish
to hurt her； and yet it was not for the sake of hurting her；
who was beyond his shafts； but in order to mortify his
own incredibly reckless impulse of abandonment to the
spirit which seemed； at moments； about to rush him to
the uttermost ends of the earth。 She affected him beyond
the scope of his wildest dreams。 He seemed to see
that beneath the quiet surface of her manner； which was
almost pathetically at hand and within reach for all the
trivial demands of daily life； there was a spirit which she
reserved or repressed for some reason either of loneliness
or—could it be possible—of love。 Was it given to Rodney
to see her unmasked； unrestrained； unconscious of her
duties？ a creature of uncalculating passion and instinctive
freedom？ No； he refused to believe it。 It was in her
loneliness that Katharine was unreserved。 “I went back
to my room by myself and I did—what I liked。” She had
said that to him； and in saying it had given him a glimpse
of possibilities； even of confidences； as if he might be
the one to share her loneliness； the mere hint of which
made his heart beat faster and his brain spin。 He checked
himself as brutally as he could。 He saw her redden； and in
the irony of her reply he heard her resentment。
He began slipping his smooth； silver watch in his pocket；
in the hope that somehow he might help himself back to
that calm and fatalistic mood which had been his when
he looked at its face upon the bank of the lake； for that
mood must； at whatever cost； be the mood of his intercourse
with Katharine。 He had spoken of gratitude and
acquiescence in the letter which he had never sent； and
now all the force of his character must make good those
vows in her presence。
She； thus challenged； tried meanwhile to define her
points。 She wished to make Denham understand。
“Don’t you see that if you have no relations with people
it’s easier to be honest with them？” she inquired。 “That
is what I meant。 One needn’t cajole them； one’s under no
obligation to them。 Surely you must have found with your
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own family that it’s impossible to discuss what matters
to you most because you’re all herded together； because
you’re in a conspiracy； because the position is false—”
Her reasoning suspended itself a little inconclusively； for
the subject was plex； and she found herself in ignorance
whether Denham had a family or not。 Denham was
agreed with her as to the destructiveness of the family
system； but he did not wish to discuss the problem at
that moment。
He turned to a problem which was of greater interest to
him。
“I’m convinced；” he said； “that there are cases in which
perfect sincerity is possible—cases where there’s no relationship；
though the people live together； if you like；
where each is free； where there’s no obligation upon either
side。”
“For a time perhaps；” she agreed； a little despondently。
“But obligations always grow up。 There are feelings to be
considered。 People aren’t simple； and though they may
mean to be reasonable； they end”—in the condition in
which she found herself； she meant； but added lamely—
”in a muddle。”
“Because；” Denham instantly intervened； “they don’t
make themselves understood at the beginning。 I could
undertake； at this instant；” he continued； with a reasonable
intonation which did much credit to his selfcontrol；
“to lay down terms for a friendship which should be perfectly
sincere and perfectly straightforward。”
She was curious to hear them； but； besides feeling that
the topic concealed dangers better known to her than to
him； she was reminded by his tone of his curious abstract
declaration upon the Embankment。