Perhaps he had offended her by his silence--his two letters, which she had
neither invited nor answered. That can hardly account for it, since she
had not written to him of her own initiative. Their parting certainly had
been discrepant: the clinging and wistfulness had been hers, though she
had uttered nothing of complaint or misgiving. But perhaps he had been too
gay and nonchalant, a little too much the husband secure. For a week she
had shivered at her loneliness; then she had plunged anew into the flood
of affairs, and had come out, as from a cold bath, braced and tingling.
Round went the wheels of Wanless. The house was new-papered, painted,
carpeted; every month brought new wonders to the garden. Under Glyde's
tuition, seeing with his eyes, watching with his tensity of vision, she
had come closely into Nature's arms. Perhaps she was unwise with the young
man: the fact is she never stopped to consider him. She liked him and his
queer, secret, passionate ways. She took a royal line of her own. She
required much of him, and if he made much of it, she didn't know it. She
dreamed no harm to him or to herself. Her absorption in the business of
the moment, or the needs, was so manifest that not even the maids, who saw
her frequently with the youth, could have thought harm for a second.
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