She looked up at him, and saw, with concern, how wan and tired he looked. He had been flushed and in brilliant spirits all the morning. He coughed at times, but then she had never known him without a cough. Now her old fear returned. But of what use was it to speak? It was clear that he would not relax in his work, still less give it up and seek a milder climate. Like the Pompeiian sentinel, he would die at his post, but never flee. Neither spoke for some minutes. Their thoughts were upon very different lines; she had forgotten his last words, and failed to see the connection of ideas when he said,
"I am not a philosopher, you see. I cannot accept the inevitable. When a thing is beyond a man's reach he ought not even to think about it."
"But isn't it because you do not think enough of the plain, simple thing—I would say the duty—that is within your reach, that you are troubled about the unattainable? Those old Romans were so wise when they said that 'a healthy mind' depended on 'a healthy body.' You ought to leave off work—I am sure you ought—and go 'right away,' as you say here, and get quite strong before you return to this trying climate. You should do this for your mother's sake. If you resist her appeal, with her sweet, suffering face, of course no words of mine can be of any avail."
For a minute it seemed as though he had not heard her. His brow was knit, his lips tight clenched; he walked on without turning his head. Then, catching his breath as he spoke, he said, in a low voice,
"On the contrary. If you told me to go—to follow you—anywhere—I would do it. That is the only thing that would make me throw up my professorship."
She was painfully startled; she had not in the least anticipated this. She knew—what woman does not?—that she was admired; but their intercourse had been of such a purely friendly nature, it had never occurred to her that this young man, in whom she had not hesitated to show her deep interest, secretly nourished a far stronger feeling. They were just the same age; yet to her, in spite of his decision and force of character, he had seemed much younger. Poor fellow! Oh, the pity of it! That, ill as she knew him to be, she must speak words which must wound him, words which sounded cruel even in her own ears.
"That is a responsibility I could never undertake. I can only advise you as a friend, a friend of your mother's as of yours. I can only tell you what it seems to me it is right you should do. Beyond that, I cannot direct your future."
"Of course. I never thought you would," he said, in a low voice, as they entered the Memorial Hall.
His mother touched her on the shoulder at the same moment.
"Those are Lafarge's famous windows," she said. "How do you like them?"