THE WINDOWthe thing folding them in was beginning, she felt,to close round her again. Say anything, shebegged, looking at him, as if for help.

He was silent, swinging the compass on hiswatch-chain to and fro, and thinking of Scott’snovels and Balzac’s novels. But through thecrepuscular walls of their intimacy, for they weredrawing together, involuntarily, coming side byside, quite close, she could feel his mind like araised hand shadowing her mind; and he wasbeginning now that her thoughts took a turn hedisliked—towards this "pessimism" as he calledit—to fidget, though he said nothing, raising hishand to his forehead, twisting a lock of hair,letting it fall again.

“You won't finish that stocking to-night,"he said, pointing to her stocking. That was whatshe wanted—the asperity in his voice reprovingher. If he says it’s wrong to be pessimisticprobably it is wrong, she thought; the marriagewill turn out all right.

“No,” she said, flattening the stocking outupon her knee, "I shan’t finish it.”

And what then? For she felt that he was stilllooking at her, but that his look had changed. Hewanted something—wanted the thing she alwaysfound it so difficult to give him; wanted her totell him that she loved him. And that, no, she189
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