as much as possible, to sink it in that of the beloved, to drown in
hers. He was obsessed by Blanche, she filled the world for him from rim
to rim; and though with his mind he still admitted the absurdity of it,
could even look at his own state dispassionately, he yet had to admit
the fact. It was some time since he had been near Boase, because,
although the Parson never so much as hinted it, Ishmael knew he was not
in sympathy with him over this. Annie he felt he could hate for her
antagonism, which, as long as it had been against himself alone, he had
not minded; even Vassie would not yield altogether and come in on his
side. Blanche had to fight the lot of them, he told himself--resentful,
fearful lest they should frighten her away. But at the bottom of it all
was the fear, the distrust of her which he refused to recognise.

On this morning as he went down over the fields to Mrs. Penticost's he
was more uneasy than ever before--he knew it was not his imagination
that she had been different these last few days; he began to be beset by
vague fears to which he had not dared give form even in his own mind,
much less in any speech with her. Yet since the dance he had faced the
conclusion that they could not go on as they were, that Blanche must
either agree to a wedding or a final parting....

He reached the cottage and had to wait awhile till Blanche, pale and
grave, came to him in the little parlour.

"Come out," he said to her. "There's a lot of things I want to say, and
I can't here. The room's too small."

Blanche hesitated, seemed to be weighing something in her mind, and then
agreed docilely; she put on a hat, and then went beside him towards the
cliff. As they went Ishmael tried to take her hand, trying to capture