poured out his heart to her. Hitherto, the very essence of his love had
been taciturn endurance; now, he felt how infinitely much he had to say
to her: all that he had undergone since knowing her first, all the
hopes and feelings that had so long been pent up in him, struggled to
escape. Now, there was no hindrance to his telling her everything; it
was not only permissible, but right that he should: henceforth there
must be no strangeness between them, no knowledge, pleasant or
unpleasant, that she did not share. And he went back, and dwelt on
details and events long past, which, unknown to himself, his memory had
stored up; but it was chiefly the restless misery of the past half year
that was his theme--he took the same pleasure in reciting it, now that
it was over, as the convalescent in relating his sufferings. Besides
that, it was easier, there being nothing to conceal; whereas, in
referring to an earlier time, a certain name had to be shirked and gone
round about, like a plague-spot. His impassioned words knew no halt; he
was amazed at his own eloquence. And the burden of months fell away
from him as he talked.

The receptiveness of her silence spurred him on. She sat motionless,
with loosely clasped hands; and spots of light settled on her bare
head, and on the white stuff of her dress. Occasionally, at something
he said, a smile would raise the corners of her mouth; sometimes, but
less often, she turned her head with incredulous eyes. But, though she
was emotionally so irresponsive, Maurice had the feeling that she was
content, even happy, to sit inactive at his side, and listen to his
story.

Each of these first wonderful days was of the same pattern. They
themselves lost count of time, so like was one day to another; and yet
each that passed was a little eternity in itself. The weather was
superb, and to them, in their egotism, it came to seem in the order of
things that they should rise in the morning to cloudless skies and
golden sunshine; that the cool green seclusion of the woods should be
theirs, where they were more securely shut off from the world than
inside the house. Louise lay on the moss, with her arms under her head,
or sat with her back against a tree-trunk. Maurice was always in front
of her, so that he could see her face as he talked--this face of which
he could never see enough.

He was happy, in a dazed way; he could not appraise the extent of his
happiness all at once. Its chief outward