“A sort of cathedral?”
“You may laugh at me. I like you to laugh at me. Why not as a cathedral, cool and restful?”
“Cool and restful,” she repeated. “Yes, you are like that. But suppose I want to wander outside, restless creature that I am; suppose nothing you do satisfies me?”
“I’ll do more.”
“And after that?”
“Always more.”
There were no scenes between them; Gabriel was not the man for scenes, he was deeply happy, humbly happy, not knowing his own worth, much more careful of her than any woman could have been, and gentle beyond speech. Even in those days she wondered how it would be with her if she were well, robust, whether all these little cares would not irritate her, whether this was indeed the lover for her. There was something donnish and Oxonian about him.
“I’m not sure I look upon you as a cathedral, whether it isn’t more as a college.”
When he could not follow her he remained silent.
“Think of me any way you want so long as you do think of me,” he said, after a pause.