He is touched and softened. He presses her lips, though they no longer thrill him, and she in her mute worship cannot define the change.
Her love, he thinks, so freely given, so utterly beyond control, is after all a pitiable spectacle.
He scrutinises her fair face critically; it seems insipid to him now. Its pale spirituality, which once set his brain on fire, appears characterless. The classical features, exquisitely moulded, lack power. The sweet mouth has a wan droop, as if sighing for ungranted kisses.
"Sometimes, Carol," she says at last, "I fancy you are tiring of me." She only speaks for him to contradict.
"My darling, what an absurd notion to get into that pretty little head of yours! Occasionally it is a little slow here for us both."
"That is only since you grew nervous. Of course, the days are long if you will stay indoors doing nothing."
"Yes, you are quite right," he answers, somewhat to Eleanor's surprise. "It is foolish, and unnecessary. Now you won't grumble, my pet, if I go for a long day's sport to-morrow. It will do me all the good in the world, some excitement and exercise. I have been getting dreadfully grumpy and cross."
"How early shall you start?"
"Oh, first thing. I assure you, Eleanor, I am quite looking forward to it. I can't have been very well lately, and that accounts for my apparent prostration and uncalled-for nervousness. There is nothing really to fear, and you can make your mind quite easy about me."
These reassuring words delight Eleanor, for as long as Carol is happy and satisfied, her joy is intense.