These words of his caressed her from now on, echoing even in her sleep at night.
They celebrated Christmas together.
When the candles were burning on the tree and the homelike scent of pine and apples filled the room, he caught her hands, looked long into her eyes smiling, and said:
"You know, you and I ought really to marry."
She felt her blood bounding hot through her veins, but she held on to herself, and burst out laughing.
"You think I'm joking," he went on. "No, no, I'm not. I am in deep earnest. You yourself tell me--we're each of us alone, we don't care about the world, we have come to understand each other as no other two people on earth have ever understood each other. Why should we not share our fate the rest of our lives?"
"Now do be sensible," she said, trying to keep up a show of lightness, "and don't talk such nonsense any more; for nonsense it is, whether said in fun or in deep earnest. Exactly what you need--a woman hanging round your neck who is five years older than you and soon will be altogether faded. Besides, you don't strike me as having been born to be a nurse, and you know I am slowly making my way graveward. So the matter's settled."
That night she cried to herself.
The next day his headache bothered him worse than ever. With her he was privileged to make himself comfortable, and he stretched out on the sofa, and she adjusted the cushions under his head.
"Your hands are always so cool," he said. "In the days of old you sometimes used to stroke my forehead so soothingly. It did me no end of good. I have spoiled my chance for that form of happiness, too."