Life was so incalculable. Was it not perfectly possible that he should go travelling about the world with her, live with her a period of happiness and finally part from her just as he had parted from many another?... Yet when he thought of the end that was inevitably bound to come, whether death brought it or life itself, he felt a gentle grief in his heart.... She still remained silent. Did she think again that he was lacking in initiative?... Or did she think perhaps "I am really going to succeed, I shall be his wife?..."
He then felt her hand stroke his very gently, with a kind of new tenderness that did him great good.
"George," she said.
"What is it?" he asked.
"If I were religious," she replied, "I should like to pray for something now."
"What for?" said George, feeling almost nervous.
"For you to do something, George—something that really counted. For you to become a genuine artist, a great artist."
He could not help looking at the floor, as though for very shame that her thoughts had travelled on paths that were so much cleaner than his own.
A beggar held open the thick green curtain. George gave the man a coin; they were in the open air. The street lights shone up, the noise of vehicles and closing shutters suddenly grew near. George felt as if a fine veil which the twilight of the church had woven around him and her had now been torn, and in a tone of relief he suggested a little ride. Anna agreed with alacrity. They got into an open fiacre, had the top pulled down over them, drove through the streets, then drove round the Ring, without seeing much of the buildings and gardens, spoke not a word and nestled closer and closer to each other. They were both conscious of each other's impatience and their own, and they knew it was no longer possible to go back.
When they were near Anna's home George said: "What a pity that you have got to go home now."