He went nowhere that day. In the afternoon they lay about together in the field and read poetry. She asked him to. The desire for silent meditation was stronger upon him by this time than ever, and he didn’t want just then to read poetry.
She instantly noticed that he was reading it differently from the way he had read it on the other days, reading it—but how could this be when he was so fond of it?—almost reluctantly.
‘Is anything the matter, Chris?’ she asked, bending her face anxiously over him.
He took it in his two hands. ‘I love you,’ he said.
How tired she looked. He was struck by it, out there in the afternoon light, as he held her face in his hands.
He became attentive and anxious. ‘Aren’t you well, my darling?’ he asked, still holding her face.
‘Yes. Quite. Why?’ she answered, wondering. Then added rather quickly, drawing back, ‘Do I look tired?’
‘I don’t feel pale,’ she said, turning her head away so that he could only see her profile.
She tried to laugh, but she discovered she found it unpleasant to be asked by Christopher if she didn’t feel well. It meant she must be looking worn; and passionately she didn’t want to look worn,—not now, not on her honeymoon, not married to Christopher, not ever. A most undesirable thing to look, and to be avoided by every means in her power.