or her, too, for she was not happy. There was a gnawing discontent in
her just now, and for this, in great measure, he held himself
responsible: for a few weeks she had been buoyed up by the hope of a
new life, and he had been the main agent in destroying this hope. In
return, he had had nothing to offer her--nothing but a rigid living up
to certain uncomfortable ideals, which brought neither change nor
pleasure with them: and, despite his belief in the innate nobility of
her nature, he could not but recognise that ideals were for her
something colder and sterner than for other people.

She made countless demands on his indulgence, and he learnt to see,
only too clearly, what a dependent creature she was. It was more than a
boon, it was a necessity to her, to have some one at her side who would
care for her comfort and well-being. He could not picture her alone;
for no one had less talent than she for the trifles that compose life.
Her thoughts seemed always to be set on something larger, vaguer,
beyond.

He devoted as much time to her as he could spare from his work, and
strove to meet her half-way in all she asked. But it was no slight
matter; for her changes of mood had never been so abrupt as they were
now. He did not know how to treat her. Sometimes, she was cold and
unapproachable, so wrapped up in herself that he could not get near
her; and perhaps only an hour later, her lips would curve upwards in
the smile which made her look absurdly young, and her eyes, too, have
all the questioning wonder of a child's. Or she would be silent with
him, not unkindly, but silent as a sphinx; and, on the same day, a fit
of loquacity would seize her, when she was unable to speak quickly
enough for the words that bubbled to her lips. He managed to please her
seldomer than ever. But however she behaved, he never faltered. The
right to be beside her was now his; and the times she was the hardest
on him were the times he loved her best.

As spring, having reached and passed perfection, slipped over into
summer, she was invaded by a restlessness that nothing could quell. It
got into her hands and her voice, into all her movements, and worked
upon her like a fever-like a crying need. So intense did it become that
it communicated itself to him also. He, too, began to feel that rest
and stillness were impossible for them both, and to be avoided at any
cost.

"I have never really seen spring," Louise said to him, one day, in
excuse