to-day, coming back home, I was struggling not to show anything; though
it's hateful to keep things from Dad. Love alters everything; it melts
up the whole world and makes it afresh. Love is the sun of our spirits,
and it's the wind. Ah, and the rain, too! But I won't think of that!...
I wonder if he's told Aunt Kirsteen!..."


CHAPTER X


While Nedda sat, long past midnight, writing her heart out in her
little, white, lilac-curtained room of the old house above the
Spaniard's Road, Derek, of whom she wrote, was walking along the Malvern
hills, hurrying upward in the darkness. The stars were his companions;
though he was no poet, having rather the fervid temper of the born
swordsman, that expresses itself in physical ecstasies. He had come
straight out from a stormy midnight talk with Sheila. What was he
doing--had been the burden of her cry--falling in love just at this
moment when they wanted all their wits and all their time and strength
for this struggle with the Mallorings? It was foolish, it was weak;
and with a sweet, soft sort of girl who could be no use. Hotly he had
answered: What business was it of hers? As if one fell in love when one
wished! She didn't know--her blood didn't run fast enough! Sheila had
retorted, "I've more blood in my big toe than Nedda in all her body!
A lot of use you'll be, with your heart mooning up in London!" And
crouched together on the end of her bed, gazing fixedly up at him
through her hair, she had chanted mockingly: "Here we go gathering wool
and stars--wool and stars--wool and stars!"

He had not deigned to answer, but had gone out, furious with her,