Did Sir Robert do this amazing thing to me? I can not think clearly. I am that way at times—I let another try to bring me to his own point of view, he is more likely than not merely to rouse my own inner voices. I never follow—I lead.
However it be, I only know now that I am a man with blazing fires in me—fires that both sear and illuminate my mind, my emotions, my soul. It is glorious. And terrible.
It was nearly six o'clock when I came into my room. I observed that the connecting door stood part way open. This meant, I had come to know, that she was in, and that I was welcome.
I tiptoed to the door, and tapped on it with the tips of my fingers.
She was sitting by her balcony, sewing.
“Did you have a good walk?” she asked softly.
She seemed less sad. When I had tossed my hat and stick aside and entered her room, it seemed to me even that a smile was hovering on her lovely face. I could not be certain of this, for she kept her head bowed over her work.
I dropped into a chair by her, and looked at her. Yes, she seemed distinctly softer, even more subtly feminine (as we say) than usual, bending over the needle that moved nimbly to and fro. It struck me that sewing brought out the beauty of her hands.
Finally she raised her head and looked at me. She was smiling.
“I've got it,” she said. “Listen.”