"Father, I can't!" she cried; then burst into a passion of tears.
"God help us!" her father breathed, rising and looking at her in
blank misery. But in a moment she had recovered herself. They faced
each other for an instant, but neither ventured to speak again, and
Maud turned and left him.
Waymark came as usual, but now he seldom saw Mrs. Enderby. Maud
received him alone. There was little that was lover-like in these
hours spent together. They kissed each other at meeting and parting,
but, with this exception, the manner of both was very slightly
different from what it had been before their engagement. They sat
apart, and talked of art, literature, religion, seldom of each
other. It had come to this by degrees; at first there had been more
warmth, but passion never. Waymark's self-consciousness often
weighed upon his tongue, and made his conversation but a string of
commonplaces; Maud was often silent for long intervals. Their eyes
never met in a steady gaze.
Waymark often asked himself whether Maud's was a passionless nature,
or whether it was possible that her reserve had the same origin as
his own. The latter he felt to be unlikely; sometimes there was a
pressure of her hands as their lips just touched, the indication, he
believed, of feeling held in restraint for uncertain reasons.
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