He flickered his irritating grin.
'Yo'maun ax 'er！'Then he looked at Connie.
'Tha comes o'thine own accord，lass，doesn't ter？It's non me as forces thee？'
Connie looked at Hilda.
'I wish you wouldn't cavil，Hilda.'
'Naturally I don't want to.But someone has to think about things.You've got to have some sort of continuity in your life.You can't just go making a mess.'
There was a moment's pause.
'Eh，continuity！'he said.'An'what by that？What continuity ave yer got i'your life？I thought you was gettin'divorced.What continuity's that？Continuity o'yer own stubbornness.I can see that much.An'what good's it goin'to do yer？You'll be sick o'yer continuity afore yer a fat sight older.A stubborn woman an er own self-will：ay，they make a fast continuity，they do.Thank heaven，it isn't me as 'as got th''andlin'
of yer！'
'What right have you to speak like that to me？'said Hilda.
'Right！What right ha'yo'ter start harnessin'other folks i'your continuity？Leave folks to their own continuities.'
'My dear man，do you think I am concerned with you？'said Hilda softly.
'Ay，'he said.'Yo'are.For it's a force-put.Yo'more or less my sister-in-law.'
'Still far from it，I assure you.
'Not a'that far，I assure you .I've got my own sort o'continuity，back your life！Good as yours，any day.An'if your sister there comes ter me for a bit o'cunt an'tenderness，she knows what she's after.She's been in my bed afore：which you 'aven't，thank the Lord，with your continuity.'
There was a dead pause，before he added：'--Eh，I don't wear me breeches arse-forrards.An'if I get a windfall，I thank my stars.A man gets a lot of enjoyment out o'that lass theer，which is more than anybody gets out o'th'likes o'you.Which is a pity，for you might appen a'bin a good apple，'stead of a handsome crab.Women like you needs proper graftin'.'
He was looking at her with an odd，flickering smile，faintly sensual and appreciative.
'And men like you，'she said，'ought to be segregated：justifying their own vulgarity and selfish lust.'
'Ay，ma'am！It's a mercy there's a few men left like me.But you deserve what you get：to be left severely alone.'
Hilda had risen and gone to the door.He rose and took his coat from the peg.
'I can find my way quite well alone，'she said.
'I doubt you can't，'he replied easily.
They tramped in ridiculous file down the lane again，in silence.An owl still hooted.He knew he ought to shoot it.
The car stood untouched，a little dewy.Hilda got in and started the engine.The other two waited.
'All I mean，'she said from her entrenchment，'is that I doubt if you'll find it's been worth it，either of you！'
'One man's meat is another man's poison，'he said，out of the darkness.
'But it's meat an'drink to me.
The lights flared out.
'Don't make me wait in the morning，'
'No，I won't.Goodnight！'
The car rose slowly on to the highroad，then slid swiftly away，leaving the night silent.
Connie timidly took his arm，and they went down the lane.He did not speak.At length she drew him to a standstill.
'Kiss me！'she murmured.
'Nay，wait a bit！Let me simmer down，'he said.
That amused her.She still kept hold of his arm，and they went quickly down the lane，in silence.She was so glad to be with him，just now.She shivered，knowing that Hilda might have snatched her away.He was inscrutably silent.
When they were in the cottage again，she almost jumped with pleasure，that she should be free of her sister.
'But you were horrid to Hilda，'she said to him.
'She should ha'been slapped in time.'
'But why？and she's so nice.'
He didn't answer，went round doing the evening chores，with a quiet，inevitable sort of motion.He was outwardly angry，but not with her.So Connie felt.And his anger gave him a peculiar handsomeness，an inwardness and glisten that thrilled her and made her limbs go molten.
Still he took no notice of her.
Till he sat down and began to unlace his boots.Then he looked up at her from under his brows，on which the anger still sat firm.
'Shan't you go up？'he said.'There's a candle！'
He jerked his head swiftly to indicate the candle burning on the table.
She took it obediently，and he watched the full curve of her hips as she went up the first stairs.
It was a night of sensual passion，in which she was a little startled and almost unwilling：yet pierced again with piercing thrills of sensuality，different，sharper，more terrible than the thrills of tenderness，but，at the moment，more desirable.Though a little frightened，she let him have his way，and the reckless，shameless sensuality shook her to her foundations，stripped her to the very last，and made a different woman of her.It was not really love.It was not voluptuousness.It was sensuality sharp and searing as fire，burning the soul to tinder.
Burning out the shames，the deepest，oldest shames，in the most secret places.It cost her an effort to let him have his way and his will of her.
She had to be a passive，consenting thing，like a slave，a physical slave.
Yet the passion licked round her，consuming，and when the sensual flame of it pressed through her bowels and breast，she really thought she was dying：yet a poignant，marvellous death.
She had often wondered what Abélard meant，when he said that in their year of love he and Hélo?se had passed through all the stages and refinements of passion.The same thing，a thousand years ago：ten thousand years ago！The same on the Greek vases，everywhere！The refinements of passion，the extravagances of sensuality！And necessary，forever necessary，to burn out false shames and smelt out the heaviest ore of the body into purity.With the fire of sheer sensuality.
