ut she hated to hurt him in any way. And it caused her a genuine sorrow
sometimes to say no to him. He had proposed to her many times a year for
many, many years, and always with a passion and sincerity that made it
appear as if he was proposing for the first time in his life. Twice, the
strength and devotion of his physical presence had seemed to remove
every doubt of him from her mind, and she had said that she would marry
him, and had been ecstatically happy while he kissed her and held her in
his arms. And each time better knowledge of herself, a sleepless night,
and the unsparing light of morning had filled her with shame and
remorse, and made it quite clear that she had made one more mistake, and
must tell him so, and eat humble pie. And exact a promise that he would
never make love to her again. But she could never get him to promise
that. And she could never keep him from kissing things that belonged to
her when she was looking, and when she wasn't. And if, as he sometimes
threatened in moments of disappointed and injured feelings, he had gone
far away, so that he could never cross her path again, she would have
missed him so much that it would almost have killed her. And so it is
with all human beings--they care little enough about their dearest
possessions until the fire by night consumes them, or the thief walks
off with them. Then the silver and the jewels, and this thing and that,
assume a sort of humanity--and are as if they had been dear friends and
unutterably necessary companions in joy and sorrow.

To Wilmot a little encouragement was a great thing, a foundation upon
which to undertake pyramids. Having intruded upon Barbara's working
hours without being scolded, Wilmot began to picture for himself a
delightful life of intruding upon them every day. He hoped that if she
was really working, she would not actually send him away, but let him
sit in the deep chair by the fire and wait till she was through, and
ready for talk and play. As much almost as he loved her, he hated her
ambitions, if only because they interfered with him, and because he
found it impossible to take them seriously. Her work seemed surprisingly
good to him--not surprisingly good for a genuine sculptor who exhibited
in salons, but for a girl of his own class whom he had always known. In
this estimate he did not do Barbara justice. She had a fine natural
talent and she had been well trained. People who knew what they were
talking about,