Kingston and Isabel noticed Gundred’s efforts to keep pace with their conversations. On Isabel they had no effect. Isabel admitted no consideration of Gundred to any place in her life. She lived alone with Kingston, in a world of their own creation, and Gundred had for her little, if any, real existence. On Kingston Gundred’s manœuvres impressed the full ill-luck of the situation. He saw how she was trying to come near him, and her struggles to do so only emphasized the fact that she was far away. Her attempt had come too late. Understanding now, as he did, the relation in which his whole soul stood to Isabel’s, it became piteous to watch Gundred’s efforts, and understand their futility. He redoubled the warmth of his demonstrations, and, after the habit of men, tried to make up for denying her what she wanted by lavishing upon her everything she did not. Outward signs no longer satisfied her; she had awaked to the fact that true marriage involves the exchange of something more, and that something more it was not now in Kingston’s power to give her. He was delightfully attentive, delightfully demonstrative; he picked up cushions, placed footstools and pillows, fetched and carried with eager docility; he complimented, praised, gave lip-worship and kisses and embraces; but these vigorous manifestations were all so many simulacra of the love that was lacking. Gundred insensibly came to realize the lack, and Kingston’s well-meant attempts to dissemble it only had the effect of forcing it on her attention. He gave her no cause to feel lonely, was always at her side, always included her in the talk, never allowed himself to be alone with Isabel. Yet lonely Gundred still felt herself--shut out from something. By whose fault? The fault was undiscoverable.