"No, I only put thing's just as they are, and as I've also learned a little, thank heaven, to see them--which isn't, I quite agree with you, at all what any one does.You're in the deep doze of the spell that has held you for long years, and it would be a shame, a crime, to wake you up.Indeed I already feel with a thousand scruples that I'm giving you the fatal shake.I say it even though it makes me sound a little as if I thought myself the fairy prince."She gazed at him with her queerest kindest look, which he was getting used to in spite of a faint fear, at the back of his head, of the strange things that sometimes occurred when lonely ladies, however mature, began to look at interesting young men from over the seas as if the young men desired to flirt."It's so wonderful," she said, "that you should be so very odd and yet so very good-natured." Well, it all came to the same thing--it was so wonderful that SHE should be so ****** and yet so little of a bore.
He accepted with gratitude the theory of his languor--which moreover was real enough and partly perhaps why he was so sensitive; he let himself go as a convalescent, let her insist on the weakness always left by fever.It helped him to gain time, to preserve the spell even while he talked of breaking it; saw him through slow strolls and soft sessions, long gossips, fitful hopeless questions--there was so much more to tell than, by any contortion, she COULD--and explanations addressed gallantly and patiently to her understanding, but not, by good fortune, really reaching it.They were perfectly at cross-purposes, and it was the better, and they wandered together in the silver haze with all communication blurred.
When they sat in the sun in her formal garden he quite knew how little even the tenderest consideration failed to disguise his treating her as the most exquisite of curiosities.The term of comparison most present to him was that of some obsolete musical instrument.The old-time order of her mind and her air had the stillness of a painted spinnet that was duly dusted, gently rubbed, but never tuned nor played on.Her opinions were like dried rose-leaves; her attitudes like British sculpture; her voice what he imagined of the possible tone of the old gilded silver-stringed harp in one of the corners of the drawing-room.The lonely little decencies and modest dignities of her life, the fine grain of its conservatism, the innocence of its ignorance, all its monotony of stupidity and salubrity, its cold dulness and dim brightness, were there before him.Meanwhile within him strange things took place.
It was literally true that his impression began again, after a lull, to make him nervous and anxious, and for reasons peculiarly confused, almost grotesquely mingled, or at least comically sharp.
He was distinctly an agitation and a new taste--that he could see;and he saw quite as much therefore the excitement she already drew from the vision of Addie, an image intensified by the sense of closer kinship and presented to her, clearly, with various erratic enhancements, by her friend the doctor's daughter.At the end of a few days he said to her: "Do you know she wants to come without waiting any longer? She wants to come while I'm here.I received this morning her letter proposing it, but I've been thinking it over and have waited to speak to you.The thing is, you see, that if she writes to YOU proposing it--""Oh I shall be so particularly glad!"
