“Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. ‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk. “So very clear and cold,” she said. I freely forgive you. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object.
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