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“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Sheppard did not dare to return any answer; but, disengaging herself from his embrace, endeavoured meekly to comply with his request. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last.
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