They were all wrong, all frustrated, all incomplete. Anne, in her sublime infidelity to earth; Maggie, turned from her own sweet use that she might give him what Anne could not give; and he, who between them had severed his body from his soul.
Thus he brooded.
And Maggie, with her face hidden against his knee, brooded too, piercing the illusion.
He tried to win her from her sad thoughts by talking again of the house and garden. But Maggie was tired of the house and garden now.
"And do the Pearsons look after you well still?" he asked.
"Yes. Very well."
"And Steve—is he as good to you as ever?"
Maggie brightened and became more communicative.
"Yes, very good. He was all day mending my bicycle, Sunday, and he takes me out in the boat sometimes; and he's made such a dear little house for the old Angora rabbit."
"Do you like going out in the boat?"