Why should I?

　　She stared at him, dazed and transfixed, and he went over and kneeled beside her, and took her two feet close in his two hands, and buried his face in her lap, remaining motionless. She was perfectly dim and dazed, looking down in a sort of amazement at the rather tender nape of his neck, feeling his face pressing her thighs. In all her burning dismay, she could not help putting her hand, with tenderness and compassion, on the defenceless nape of his neck, and he trembled, with a deep shudder.

　　Then he looked up at her with that awful appeal in his full, glowing eyes. She was utterly incapable of resisting it. From her breast flowed the answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything, anything.

　　He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman, trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of every sound outside.

　　To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still. Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast.

　　When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their suède slippers, and in silence went away to the end of the room, where he stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then he turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the fire.

　　`And now, I suppose you'll hate me!' he said in a quiet, inevitable way. She looked up at him quickly.

　　`Why should I?' she asked.

　　`They mostly do,' he said; then he caught himself up. `I mean...a woman is supposed to.'

　　`This is the last moment when I ought to hate you,' she said resentfully.

　　`I know! I know! It should be so! You're frightfully good to me...' he cried miserably.

　　She wondered why he should be miserable. `Won't you sit down again?' she said. He glanced at the door.