She smiled in the way that always puzzled, irritated and allured him.
His words set him still farther off; he did not even understand her
speech.

'Is it better now?' he asked, close to her.

'No, no better.' She looked at his face, so deeply tanned that his
brown hair and moustache looked pale by contrast and his eyes
extraordinarily blue. His appearance always pleased her. It was almost
a part of the landscape, but the landscape was full of change, of
mystery in spite of its familiarity, and she found him dull,
monotonous, with a sort of stupidity which was not without attraction,
but which would be wearying for a whole life. She had no desire to be
his wife and the mistress of Sales Hall, its fields and woods and
farms. The world was big, the possibilities in life were infinite, and
she felt she was fit, perhaps destined, to play a larger part than
this he offered her, and if she could, as she foresaw, only play a
greater one through the agency of some man, she must have that man
colossal, for she was only twenty-three years old.

'No,' she said firmly, 'we are not suited to each other.'

'You are to me.' His angry helplessness seemed to darken the sunlight.
'You are to me. No one else. I've known you all my life. Rose, think
about it!'

'I shall--but I shan't change. I don't believe you really love me,
Francis, but you want some one you can growl at legitimately. I don't
think you would find me satisfactory. Another woman might enjoy the