But Egbert! What are you to do with a man like Egbert? He had no vices.
He was really kind, nay generous. And he was not weak. If he had been
weak Winifred could have been kind to him. But he did not even give her
that consolation. He was not weak, and he did not want her consolation or
her kindness. No, thank you. He was of a fine passionate temper, and of a
rarer steel than she. He knew it, and she knew it. Hence she was only the
more baffled and maddened, poor thing. He, the higher, the finer, in his
way the stronger, played with his garden, and his old folk-songs and
Morris-dances, just played, and let her support the pillars of the future
on her own heart.
And he began to get bitter, and a wicked look began to come on his face.
He did not give in to her; not he. There were seven devils inside his
long, slim, white body. He was healthy, full of restrained life. Yes,
even he himself had to lock up his own vivid life inside himself, now she
would not take it from him. Or rather, now that she only took it
occasionally. For she had to yield at times. She loved him so, she
desired him so, he was so exquisite to her, the fine creature that he
was, finer than herself. Yes, with a groan she had to give in to her own
unquenched passion for him. And he came to her then--ah, terrible, ah,
wonderful, sometimes she wondered how either of them could live after the
terror of the passion that swept between them.
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