I walked up and down the studio all that evening, unable to go out to dinner, unable to think of anything but her, and all through the night I tossed about, restless and sleepless, longing for the hour on the following day which should bring her to me again.
Yet how those hours tried me now! It would be impossible to continue. She must and should marry me. It was only for me she held back from it apparently, yet for me it would be everything.
One afternoon, after a long sitting, the power to work seemed to desert me suddenly. My throat closed nervously, my mouth grew dry, the whole room seemed swimming round me, and the faultless, dazzling figure before me seemed receding into a darkening mist. I flung away my brush and rose suddenly. I felt I must move, walk about, and I started to pace the room then suddenly reeled, and saved myself by clutching at the mantelpiece.
"What is it? What is the matter?" came Viola's voice, sharp with anxiety, across the room. "Are you ill? Shall I come to you?"
"No, no," I answered, and put my head down on the mantelpiece. "Go and dress. I can't work any more."
I heard her soft slight movements as she left the dais. I did not turn, but sank into the armchair beside me, my face covered by my hands.
Screens of colour passed before my eyes, my ears sang.
I had not moved when I felt her come over to me. I looked up, she was pale with anxiety.
"You are ill, Trevor! I am so sorry."
"I have worked a little too much, that's all," I said constrainedly, turning from her lovely anxious eyes.