She did a rare thing: she put her hand into his and let him hold it, which he did as though it were a child’s. He was overcome by her smallness and frailty; she seemed to be almost transparent, and her features were tiny and delicate, but her eyes were large as she raised them. “Not ill?” he asked. “No,” she replied, “only tired and afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“No, not afraid really; only worn.”
“Yes, indeed; you’re like a little wraith. You’d blow away in a puff.”
He could not rouse her at all; she made no complaint, but sat very quiet and beaten, letting her hand lie in his. In reply to his questions, she kept on saying that she was tired. He knew that she meant spiritually, not physically, tired. She was very polite to him, saying “No, thank you, Mr. Calthorpe,” and he found her extremely pitiable, but his science failed him when he tried to think of a remedy. He could only sit alternately patting and pressing her hand. She gave him a grateful smile, at length.
“You do me good, just by being there.”
“Come, that’s better; won’t you tell me now what was the matter?”
“I only want to be happy,” she said suddenly, and her mouth quivered beyond her control, so she bit her under-lip and looked away.
“Oh, my dear! my dear!” said poor Calthorpe.
“I want to run by the sea, over the sands,” she cried, as though her heart had burst its compressing bonds; “I used to live by the sea once, in the south, and I think about it ... and the birds nesting. There were gulls upon all the rocks. There were white splashes down the rocks. It wasn’t home. But I’m homesick, I think.”