'You can't go,' he went on, coming towards her chair to caress her.
'Shall I tell you why?'

Hazel sat up and looked at him, her eyes gloomy, her forehead red with
crying. He thought she was awaiting for his answer; but Hazel seldom
did or said what he expected. She let him kneel by her chair on one
knee; then, frowning, asked: 'Who cried in Hunter's Spinney?' He jumped
up as if he had knelt on a pin. He had been trying to forget the
incident, and hoped that she had. He was bitterly ashamed of that
really fine moment of his life.

'Don't Hazel!' he said.

He felt quite frightened when he remembered how he had behaved. A
strange doubt of himself, born that night, stirred again. Was he all he
had thought? Was the world what he had thought? Misgivings seized him.
Perhaps he ought not to have brought Hazel here or to the Spinney. An
older code than those of Church and State began to flame before him,
condemning him.

Suddenly he wanted reassurance. 'You did want to come, didn't you? I
didn't take advantage of you very much, did I?' he asked. 'You want to
stay?'

'No, I didna want to come till you made me. You got the better of me.
But maybe you couldna help it. Maybe you were druv to it.'

'Who by?' he asked, with an attempt at flippancy.