ly refused to
say anything of herself or her health or her wishes. I might see her as
often as I liked, go and come to and from her house as I pleased, but
speak of our marriage or allow me any of the privileges of a fiance she
would not.

As the weeks passed the life became intolerable for me. I could not
expect my book to be produced till the autumn. There was no fresh
impetus in my brain toward writing another. All my thoughts centred now
round this woman, whom I saw apparently growing more listless, languid,
and indifferent to myself every day.

The nervous strain told upon me. Night followed night in which I got no
sleep, and which left me with a blinding headache to commence the day.
Gradually these headaches lengthened, till they stretched throughout
the tedious, desultory hours; and one stifling August afternoon, lying,
dizzy with pain, on the couch, I determined to win an answer from her
or cut all the ties, dear and clinging though they might be, and leave
her finally.

To-morrow! What was to-morrow? My brain went round when I tried to
think of the simplest thing. We had some men coming in to luncheon, I
remembered, but I would go and see her early in the morning. We were
generally alone with each other in the morning. This evening I should
have no chance of speaking as I meant to speak. When the evening came,
I felt unfit even to go and see her, and it was later than I intended
the next morning when I reached the house. I had made myself later,
too, by stopping on the way to get her some flowers. There was little
in the shop worth having but some lilies, all price, scent, and
brilliance. I took these and hurried on. They were very fine specimens,
certainly, I thought, as I glanced over them. I care very little for
flowers; they are useful, of course, sometimes, as a present for women,
and a button-hole; but there, for me, their merits cease. Howard would
have sentimentalised into two or three verses over these.

I found her in the drawing-room, as usual now, for the studio was
rarely ever visited, except when she went to gaze in an abstracted way
on the finished work. She was doing nothing--as usual now--she who
formerly worked without ceasing every hour of daylight. Nor was there
anything near her that suggested or made possible the supposition of
work or even occupation. Every book was ranged in different cases in
remote corners of the room. Not a newspaper, nor blotting-book, nor
pen, lay on the table