He was to be as other men were not, to keep her staunch by an undreamed-of virtue. The lover's heart must animate to her perception only the unimpeachable kindness of the friend.
She had her wish, but had it, perhaps, in a perfection for which she was not prepared.
She seemed determined to leave no doubts as to his fortitude. She hung upon him so literally that he had to exert not moral fibre only to support her.
She drooped like a wreath about his shoulders, while he gazed, grim and ashamed, upon her hair.
But she drew no consolation from his strength. It was not strength, she told him, but indifference; she had asked for a sentry, and he had given her a statue.
She tried to soften the statue by every feminine artifice, even, at last, by kissing its irresponsive face.
He, invincibly simple, smiled at the wiles he thought were used to try him; and stiffened himself into the pose he had been convinced was her desire.
If it ever had been, she outlived it before long. Its end was advertised by an hysterical outbreak, which Terence never could recall without a shudder.
They were both, at the time, in town, where they met two or three times a week, and he had called to bring her some tickets.
She was sitting on a lounge in a remote corner of the room, and gave him her hand with blank indifference.