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“Father,” said Stella Mount—“I’m afraid I must go away again.”

“Go away, child? Why?”

“I—I can’t fall out of love with Peter.”

“But I thought you’d fallen out of love with him long ago.”

“Yes—I thought so too. But I can’t have done it really, or if I did I must have fallen in again. I’m frightfully sorry about it ... leaving you a second time, just because I’m not strong-minded enough to.... But it’s no use.... I can’t help....”

“Don’t worry, dear. If you’re unhappy you shall certainly go away. But tell me what’s happened. How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Ever since I knew Peter still cared.”

“Peter!—he hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”

“Oh, no—not a word. But I could see—I could see he was jealous of Gervase.”

“How could he possibly be jealous of Gervase?”

“He was. I met him one day in Icklesham street, and he congratulated me ... he said someone had told him Gervase and I were engaged....”

“The idea!—a boy six years younger than yourself!”

“Yes, I know. I never took him seriously—that was my mistake. Peter was ever so worked up about it, and when I told him it wasn’t true he seemed tremendously relieved. And every time I’ve met him since his manner’s been different. I can’t describe it, but he’s been sort of shy and hungry—or else restless and a bit irritable; and for a long time I could see he was still jealous—and it worried me; I felt I couldn’t bear doing anything Peter didn’t like, and I was wild at people talking, and upsetting him, so I pushed off poor Gervase and became cold and unfriendly.”

“Is that why he’s given up coming here on Sundays?”

“No—not exactly. We had rather a scene when he last came, just before his holiday, and he said he wouldn’t come back. You see he cares, Father—he cares dreadfully. I’m ever so sick with myself for not having realised it. I was so wrapped up in Peter.... I thought it was only a rave, like what the Fawcett boy had—but now I’m sure he really cares, and it must be terrible for him. That’s why I want to go away, for I’ll never be able to care for anyone else while I feel for Peter as I do.”

“But, my dear, it’s just as well you shouldn’t fall in love with Gervase. He’s a nice boy, but he’s much too young.”

“Yes, I know—it isn’t that. It’s being sure that however much he was the right age I couldn’t have cared—not because of anything lacking in him—but because of what’s lacking in me ... because of all that I’ve given to Peter, and that Peter can’t take.... Oh, Father, I’ve made some discoveries since Gervase went. I believe I refused Tom Barlow because of Peter. The reason I’m single now is because for years I’ve been in love with a man I can’t have. And that’s wrong—I know it’s wrong. It sounds ‘romantic’ and ‘faithful’ and all that—but it isn’t really—it’s wrong. Not because Peter’s a married man, but because I’m an unmarried woman. He’s keeping me unmarried, and I ought to get married—I don’t like Spinsters—and I know I was meant to be married.”

“So do I; and I’m sure that one day you will be.”

“But I can’t fall in love with anyone while I love Peter ... that’s why I must go away. I ought to go somewhere really far, out of the country perhaps. I feel dreadful leaving you, daddy, but I know I must go. It’s even more necessary than it was the first time. And there’s no good saying I could help Peter if I stayed—I don’t help him—I can see that I only make him unhappy; I’m not cold enough to be able to help him. A calm strong dignified woman might be able to help him, but I’m not that sort. I want his love, his kisses, his arms round me.... I want to give.... O Father, Father....”

She sobbed breathlessly, her face hidden in the back of her chair. Dr. Mount stood beside her in silence; then he touched her gently and said—

“Don’t cry like that my dear—don’t—I can’t bear it. You shall go away—we’ll both go away. I’ve been in this place twenty years, and it’s time I moved on.”

“But you don’t want to go, and you mustn’t. You’re happy here, and I’d never forgive myself if you left because of me.”

“I’d like to see a bit more of the world before I retire. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought of a move, and if you want to go away, that settles it. I might get a colonial practice....”

Stella thought of some far away country with flat roofs and dust and a devouring sun, she thought of hundreds of miles of forest and desert and ocean lying between her and Peter, and her tears were suddenly dried up as with the hot breath of that far land. Dry sobs tore her throat, as she clutched the back of the chair. She pushed her father away—

“Go, dear—don’t stay—when I’m like this.”

He understood her well enough to go.

For a few seconds she sobbed on, then checked herself, and perfunctorily wiped her eyes. The four o’clock sun of early November was pouring into the room, showing all its dear faded homeliness, giving life to the memories that filled it. Long ago Peter had sat in that chair—she had sat on the arm ... she seemed to feel his warm hand on her cheek as he held her head down to his shoulder. O Peter, Peter—why had he left her when he loved her so?... Oh, yes, she knew he had treated her badly, and had only himself to blame. But that didn’t make her love him less. She felt now that she had been in love with him the whole time—all along—all through and since their parting. All the time that she thought she was indifferent, and was happy in her busy life—driving the car, seeing her friends, talking and writing to Gervase, cooking and sewing and going to church, wearing pretty frocks at the winter dances and summer garden-parties—all that time her love for Peter was still alive, growing and feeding itself with her life. It had not died and been buried as she had thought but had entered a second time into its mother’s womb to be born. She had carried it secretly, as a mother carries her child in her womb, nourishing it with her life, and now it was born—born again—with all the strength of the twice-born.