"Precocious geniuses, Mrs. Somervilles in the bud, who matured into two of the most commonplace women I know, and almost as ignorant as Susan Amphlett," said Claude. "But you must not give me so much of your time, Claude," she said gently. "I love to be with you; but I may slip away for the Cambridgeshire?" he said, the trivial side of his character coming to the surface. She did not even ask if he were personally interested in the race. There had been a time when she knew every horse he owned, and made most of them her friends, rejoicing in their beauty as creatures whom she would have liked to keep for pets, rather than to expose them to the ordeal of the turf; albeit she had followed their fortunes, and speculated upon their chances, almost as keenly interested as her husband. But now they had become things without shape or meaning, like all the rest of the outside world. "You need not be afraid of leaving me," she said. "I have this good friend to keep me company," smoothing Boroo's rough coat with her soft hand. "I wish my mother were still in town. She would come to you every day." "She is very good, but she and I have never been really friends. I know she would be kind; but she would talk of painful things. I don't want to remember. I want to look forward." "Yes," he answered in a low voice, bending over her, and pressing his lips on the pale brow. "There must be no looking back." It was the first time he had kissed her since the night of the concert. She looked up at him with a sad, sweet smile, and held his hand in hers for a moment. "Susan must come to you every day to keep you in good spirits," he said. "No, Claude, Susie doesn't like sick people. She sits by my side and chatters and chatters, telling me all the scandals she thinks will interest me; but I can hear the effort she is making. Her tongue does not run on as it used before I was ill; and once when she saw a spot of blood on my handkerchief she nearly fainted. I don't want too much of Susie. Mr. Symeon will come and talk to me sometimes; and his talk always does me good." "I wish I could think so. I hate leaving you in London. You ought to have gone to Disbrowe, as your aunt wished. You would have done better in that soft air." "No. I should be better nowhere than in this silent house. If I cannot be in Rome there is nowhere else where I should like to be. I want space and silence, and no going and coming of people who mean to be kind and who bore me to death. I want no fussing and talking about me. I can put up with my nurse, because she is quiet and does her work like a machine."