Like Aunt Maria,
whatever she might think of him she was bound to think constantly of him,
to be occupied with his doings and his success, to want to know what was
in his mind, yes, although it might be what she hated to find there. For
a while he had withdrawn himself from her, ceasing to tell of his life,
aims, and doings. If he sought thus to bring her to terms, she proved an
easy conquest; she surrendered at once, laughing at herself and at him.
"We're partners," she said, "and I must hear all about what you're doing.
I can't live without that, you know." And as the price of what she must
have she gave him friendship, sympathy, and comradeship, crossing his
wishes in nothing and never allowing herself to upbraid except in that
small tacit jeer of Mr. Foster's picture on the mantelpiece. For now she
believed herself to know the worst, and yet to be able to endure.
What sort of life promised to form itself out of this state of affairs?
For after all she was at the beginning of life, and he hardly well into
the middle of his. Neither of the two obvious things seemed possible;
devotion was out of the question, alienation was forbidden by her
unconquerable interest in him and his irrepressible instinct to hold her
mind, even if he could not chain her affections.
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