There were shouts of coarse answer from the roof of the

church. The place echoed desolate.

Skrebensky sat close to her. Everything seemed wonderful, if

dreadful to her, the world tumbling into ruins, and she and he

clambering unhurt, lawless over the face of it all. He sat close

to her, touching her, and she was aware of his influence upon

her. But she was glad. It excited her to feel the press of him

upon her, as if his being were urging her to something.

As they drove home, he sat near to her. And when he swayed to

the cart, he swayed in a voluptuous, lingering way, against her,

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lingering as he swung away to recover balance. Without speaking,

he took her hand across, under the wrap, and with his unseeing

face lifted to the road, his soul intent, he began with his one

hand to unfasten the buttons of her glove, to push back her

glove from her hand, carefully laying bare her hand. And the

close-working, instinctive subtlety of his fingers upon her hand

sent the young girl mad with voluptuous delight. His hand was so

wonderful, intent as a living creature skilfully pushing and

manipulating in the dark underworld, removing her glove and

laying bare her palm, her fingers. Then his hand closed over

hers, so firm, so close, as if the flesh knitted to one thing

his hand and hers. Meanwhile his face watched the road and the

ears of the horse, he drove with steady attention through the

villages, and she sat beside him, rapt, glowing, blinded with a

new light. Neither of them spoke. In outward attention they were

entirely separate. But between them was the compact of his flesh

with hers, in the hand-clasp.

Then, in a strange voice, affecting nonchalance and

superficiality he said to her: "Sitting in the church there reminded me of Ingram."

"Who is Ingram?" she asked.

She also affected calm superficiality. But she knew that

something forbidden was coming.

"He is one of the other men with me down at Chatham--a

subaltern--but a year older than I am."

"And why did the church remind you of him?"

"Well, he had a girl in Rochester, and they always sat in a

particular corner in the cathedral for their love-making."

"How nice!" she cried, impulsively.

They misunderstood each other.

"It had its disadvantages though. The verger made a row about

it."

"What a shame! Why shouldn't they sit in a cathedral?"

"I suppose they all think it a profanity--except you and

Ingram and the girl."

"I don't think it a profanity--I think it's right, to

make love in a cathedral."

She said this almost defiantly, in despite of her own

soul.

He was silent.

"And was she nice?"

"Who? Emily? Yes, she was rather nice. She was a milliner,

and she wouldn't be seen in the streets with Ingram. It was

rather sad, really, because the verger spied on them, and got to

know their names and then made a regular row. It was a common

tale afterwards."




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