In art—and art is but the tenderer appreciation of life—they would never use the same language, never understand each other's speech. The marvelling thrill of familiar strangeness, of joyous apprehension, which the subtlety of art can wake in the initiate, they would never share.
That was not much to miss, perhaps; but, when Caragh tried to think of something its absence would not affect, he stopped in dismay.
Yet apart from her appearance, in spite of her deficiencies, the girl's love wrought a change in him of which, with surprise, he found himself aware.
It became less of an effort to return her caresses, and her kisses no longer made him feel guilty of impersonating her lover.
They never woke in his veins even a momentary ardour, and now, his pulse beat under them no whit the faster, but he had begun to grow susceptible to the quickened throb of hers. The shy renouncement of her self-restraint, as she let the secrets of her being pass, between queer little moods of resistance, into the strangeness of his power, moved him to a sense of protective tenderness he had never felt before.
VIII
It was shortly after he had said a last good-bye to Lettice Nevern that Caragh's troubles began afresh.
He had the best intention to acquire the married habit, or a habit, at any rate, that should differ widely from the one he had.
With that object he secluded himself for a fortnight from the life to which he was accustomed, and denied his company, for reasons which they vigorously disbelieved, to his friends.