“Sometimes,” she said, in a low voice, “I think Vere knows far more than I do. But—but I often feel that I am very blind, very stupid. You called me an impulsive—I suppose I am one. But if I don’t follow my impulses, what am I to follow? One must have a guide.”
“Yes, and reason is often such a dull one, like a verger throwing one over a cathedral and destroying its mystery and its beauty with every word he speaks. When one is young one does not feel that one needs a guide at all.”
“Sometimes—often—I feel very helpless now,” she said.
He was acutely conscious of the passionate longing for sympathy that was alive within her, and more faintly aware of a peculiar depression that companioned her to-night. Yet, for some reason unknown to him, he could not issue from a certain reserve that checked him, could not speak to her as he had spoken not long ago in the cave. Indeed, as she came in her last words a little towards him, as one with hands tremblingly and a little doubtfully held out, he felt that he drew back.
“I think we all feel helpless often when we have passed our first youth,” he answered.
He got up and stretched himself, towering above her.
“Shall we stroll about a little?” he added. “I feel quite cramped with sitting.”
“You go. I’ll finish this flower.”
“I’ll take a turn and come back.”
As he went she dropped her embroidery and sat staring straight before her at the sea.