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broken; and that we shall go on suffering until we are put to sleep for ever.’

Monica, while she listened, leaning forward on her hand, trying to think, to follow the arraignment—his bitter sincerity shot through, as always, with the glint of his bitter parade—felt exhaustion overwhelming her and almost feared that she might faint. But, lifting her eyes, she saw that he was still standing at the other side of the room, leaning against the window, and waiting; waiting for her to give him some comfort before they parted. He believed that she might have some comfort for him; and she pressed her hand against her eyes and thought of herself; of Clive and Hester; of Ingpen and of the little dog lost and stoned to death; of all the cruelty and horror;—in oneself; in life. And at last she said: ‘We shall go on suffering until we go to sleep; but we can go on loving too.’

‘Suffering because we love,’ said Ingpen.

‘Yes: that’s perhaps the best we can hope for; but often because we don’t love; because we don’t give love. To give is life and not to give, death; and the love that is life redeems us from death. It is given to us. We find it.’ She was remembering how it had come to her to-day and how it was with her now. ‘We can only give it if it is first given.’—