gone out together. That time at least had been perfect; it remained
secure; nothing could ever spoil it; she could remember the delight of
it, their strange communion of ecstasy, without doubt, without misgiving.
You could never forget. It might have been better if you could, instead
of knowing that it would exist in you forever, to torment you by its
unlikeness to the days, the awful, incredible days that had come
afterwards. There was no way of thinking that John had been more real
that day than he had been yesterday. She was simply left with the
inscrutable mystery of him on her hands. But she could see clearly that
he was more real to himself. Yesterday and the day before had ceased to
exist for him. He was back in his old self.

There was only one sign of memory that he gave. He was no longer her
lover; he no longer recognised her even as his comrade. He was her
commandant. It was his place to command, and hers to be commanded. He
looked at her, when he looked at her at all, with a stern coldness. She
was a woman who had committed some grave fault, whom he no longer
trusted. So masterly was his playing of this part, so great, in a way,
was still his power over her, that there were moments when she almost
believed in the illusion he created. She had committed some grave fault.
She was not worthy of his trust. Somewhere, at some time forgotten, in
some obscure and secret way, she had betrayed him.

She had so mixed her hidden self with his in love that even now, with all
her knowledge of him, she couldn't help feeling the thing as he felt it
and seeing as he saw. Her mind kept on passing in and out of the illusion
with little shocks of astonishment.

And yet all the time she was acutely aware of the difference. When she
went out with him she felt that she was going with something dangerous