She had been some one lost and desolate.
Nevertheless, how difficult these days were! Through all this time
she spoke to him no affectionate word nor touched him with an
affectionate gesture. She was simply a good-humoured companion,
laughing at him, assuming, through it all, an off-hand indifference
that meant for her so difficult a pretence that she thought he must
discover it. He did not; he was in many ways more simple than she.
She laid to sleep his suspicions. She could feel his relief that she
was not romantic, that she wanted nothing whatever from him. He was
ill--therefore was often churlish. He tried to hurt her again and
again with cruel words and then waited to see whether she were hurt.
She never showed him. He treated her with contempt, often not
answering her questions, laughing at her little stupidities,
complaining of her forgetfulness and, sometimes, her untidiness--
telling her again and again to "go back to her parson."
She gave no sign. She fought her way. But it hurt; she could not
have believed that anything could hurt so much. She was being always
drawn to him, longing to put her arm around him, to dare to kiss
him, risking any repulse.
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