‘Not tiresome, darling. And, Kingston, whatever I say, you—you—well, you need not always pay quite so much attention to it, need you? One sometimes says a thing because one ought to, not because one means it—yes? I don’t think I am always quite such a chilly fish as you seem to imagine. You must not always judge by what one says. I—well, I love everything you say and do, dear. Don’t ever leave off because you think I don’t approve. I do, Kingston, whatever I may say—I approve, because it is you. Only you must not expect me to say so in the daytime, with the sun showing up everything, and servants all over the place. I hardly like to say it, even here in the dark, with nobody to see. It seems to put me into your power too much.’
‘Into my power! Well, I am in yours. That is what marriage is. I am between your hands—between those wonderful little cool hands of yours, Gundred. What will you do with me? Crumple me up and throw me away, or drop me on the rocks, as if I were a toad? That is what your civilized daytime manner seems to threaten every now and then. Or will you keep me safe, and stroke my fur the right way, and keep me warm?’
‘I like to hear that my stupid hands can do such wonderful things. Do you really admire my hands, Kingston dear?’
‘They are just carved ivory fresh from the hands of God. There is nothing human or hot or earthly about them. They are fresh and calm, and without spot or frailty. They are the most lovely hands that ever woman had.’
‘Prettier than poor Isabel’s—no?’
‘Poor Isabel? With her hands like a pair of boxing-gloves? Don’t let us talk about great floppy Isabel now. It is only you I want to talk about. You are the only person in the world.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t be so unkind about poor Cousin Isabel,’ protested Gundred, purring with unconscious pleasure. ‘You must remember she did not make herself. And think how tiresome it would be if there were nobody different from me in the whole world. It takes all sorts to make a world, dear, yes?’
‘No, it doesn’t, wonder-lady. The whole world is nothing but a huge infinite room of mirrors, reflecting you, always and everywhere. Hundreds, thousands, millions of you, that is what I see in the world. How can I make you believe me?’
To make one’s self believe one’s own statements is, unfortunately, a far easier task than to make other people believe them. However, Gundred’s mind asked nothing better than to be convinced, and the roseate state of her rapture was far above analysis and metaphysics.
‘I am sure you would not say such a thing if you did not mean it, dear,’ she said. ‘It is a beautiful thought of yours. But you must not grudge poor Isabel a home with us until she marries. After all, whatever her shortcomings, poor darling, she is my cousin. And so it won’t be long before she marries. It’s not as if she were just nobody in particular.’