He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. During detention she orchestrated Ray Plote's murder. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. 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. She glanced at him. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. “I—I shall be all right directly. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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