Then the sensitiveness of surface-perception grew a little deadened as the paralysis of the internal perception began, very slowly, starting from the surface and working gradually inward, to pass off.
“And we were so happy!” he said.
So he was beginning to need her.
“Yes, thank God, my darling,” said she. “Let us often think how happy we have been.”
He could not receive, assimilate more than that at once. It was for the moment no use, so she felt, to speak hopefully, determinedly of the future, of her unquenchable resolve to get well. He would be ready for that soon, but not quite yet, poor darling. So she waited.
“When did you know?” asked he quietly.
“Just before we left London. I could not do without this beautiful week we have just had, Hughie. So I did not tell you till it was over.”
“Then—then your having a cold meant that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Hugh pushed back his chair with sudden vehemence, got up, and roughly, strongly, so that she was both hurt and startled, flung his arms round her, pinioning hers, and kissed her. He devoured her face with kisses, eyes and mouth, forehead and hair and neck were sealed with the redness and fervour of his lips. It was vain for her to struggle with this almost savage outburst of love; it was in vain for her to remonstrate, for he stopped her breath with his. Yet she tried; but, oh, how sweet it was to find her struggle, her remonstrance, useless. How during this last ten days she had missed and yearned for the caress of his eager breath, the roughness and smoothness of his face, his eyes burning close to hers as they burned now. And for him that physical contact which the tumult of his love demanded shook off the paralysis and the stunning. It was as if a man struck by apoplexy had had his blood let, as in the primitive surgery of old days. It was this strong flow of it that restored him to himself.