Rylett always take Jenny, and not me?" That had been the first stage of
jealousy of Alf. And the next time Alf took Jenny, Em had stayed at
home, and thought herself sick about it, supposing that Alf and Jenny
were happy and that she was unhappy, supposing they had all the fun,
envying them the fun, hating them for having what she had not got,
hating Jenny for monopolising Alf, hating Alf had monopolising Jenny;
then, as she was a woman, hating Jenny for being a more pleasing woman
than herself, and having her wounded jealousy moved into a strong
craving for Alf, driven deeper and deeper into her heart by
long-continued thought and frustrated desire. And so she had come to
look upon herself as one defrauded by Jenny of pleasure--of
happiness--of love--of Alf Rylett.

"And she calls it love!" thought Jenny bitterly. "If that's love, I've
got no use for it. Love's giving, not getting. I know that much. Love's
giving yourself; wanting to give all you've got. It's got nothing at all
to do with envy, or hating people, or being jealous...." Then a swift
feeling of pity darted through her, changing her thoughts, changing
every shade of the portrait of Emmy which she had been etching with her
quick corrosive strokes of insight. "Poor old Em!" she murmured. "She's
had a rotten time. I know she has. Let her have Alf if she wants. I
don't want him. I don't want anybody ... except ..." She closed her eyes
in the most fleeting vision. "Nobody except just Keith...."

Slowly Jenny raised her hand and pressed the back of her wrist to her
lips, not kissing the wrist, but holding it against her lips so that
they were forced hard back upon her teeth. She drew, presently, a deep
breath, releasing her arm again and clasping her hands over her knees as
she bent lower, staring at the glowing heart of the fire. Her lips were
closely, seriously, set now; her eyes sorrowful. Alf and Emmy had