"Do you know, I once thought you didn't care a jot what people said of you?" It was not a very kind thing to say; it slipped out unawares.
But she did not take it amiss. "I used not to," she answered with her invincible frankness. "But now—it seems—I do."
"Why, dearest? Aren't you happy enough not to care?"
For answer, she took his face between her hands, and looked at him with such an ill-suppressed fire in her eyes that all he could do was to draw her into his arms.
His pains for her good came to nothing. He took her his favourite books, but—with the exception of an occasional novel—Louise was no reader. In those he brought her, she seldom advanced further than the first few pages; and she could sit for an hour without turning a leaf. He had never seen her with a piece of sewing or any such feminine employment in her hands. Nor did she spend time on her person; as a rule, he found her in her dressing-gown. He had to give up trying to influence her, and to become reconciled to the fact that she chose to live only for him. But on this September day, after the unpleasant episode with Schwarz, he had a fancy to go for a walk; Louise was unwilling; and he felt anew how preposterous it was for her to spend these fine autumn days, in this half-dark room.
"You are burying yourself alive—just as you did last winter."
She laid her hand on his lips. "No, no!—don't say that. Now I am happy."
"But are you really? Sometimes I'm not sure." He was tired himself this evening, and found it difficult to be convinced. "It troubles me when I think how dull it must be for you. Dearest, are you—can you really be happy like this?"
"I have you, Maurice."
"But only for an hour or two in the twenty-four. Tell me, what do you think of?"