of greenish blue). She had
been reading one of his books; it lay in her lap. Her feet rested on
his fender, they stretched out towards the warmth of his fire. If only
it were permitted to him always to buy things for her; always to give
her the rest she needed; always to care for her and keep her warm and
well. He wondered how things had gone with her those five years. Had
she been happy in that college in the south? Had they been kind to
her, those women; or had they tortured her, as only women can torture
women, in some devilish, subtle way? Or would overwork account for the
failure of her strength? He thought he saw signs in her tender face of
some obscure, deep-seated suffering of the delicate nerves. Well,
anyhow she was resting now. And in looking at her he rested, too, from
the labour of conscience and the trouble of desire. Heart and senses
were made quiet by her mere presence. If his hands trembled as they
waited on her it was not with passion but with some new feeling,
indescribable and profound. For brought so near to him as this, so
near as to create the illusion of possession, she became for him
something too sacred for his hands to touch.

He could count on about half an hour of this illusion before Flossie
appeared. Afraid of losing one moment of it, he began instantly on the
thing he had to say.

"All this time I've been waiting to thank you for your introduction to
Fielding."

"Oh," she said eagerly, "what did he say? Tell me."

He told her. As she listened he could see how small a pleasure was
enough to give life again to her tired face.

"I am so glad," she said in the low voice of sincerity; "so very
glad." She paused. "That justifies my belief in you. Not that it
needed any justification."

"I don't know. Your cousin, who is the best critic I know, would tell
you that it did."

"My cousin--perhaps. But he _does_ see that those poems are great.
Only he's so made that I think no greatness reconciles him to--well,
to little faults, if they are faults of taste."

"Did you find many faults of taste?"

She smiled. "I found some; but only in the younger poems. There were
none--none at all--in the later ones. Which of course is what one
might expect."

"It is, indeed. Did you look at the dates? Did you notice that all
those later things were written either at Harmouth, or after?"

"I did."

"And didn't that strike you as significant? Didn't you draw any
conclusions?"

"I drew the conclusi