“I have always been like that ever since I was a child. What is called, I believe, ‘a little delicate.’ I get very easily over-tired. Then if I don’t pull up and recuperate with bed and Benger, I get an attack of pain....” “Of pain! My poor darling!” “Unbearable. I mean _I_ can’t bear it. Gabriel, don’t you think you are doing a very foolish thing, taking this half-broken life of mine?” “If only the time were here!” “Sometimes I think it will never come,” she sighed. “I am _clairvoyante_ in a way. I don’t see myself in harbour.” “Only three weeks more, then you shall be as _clairvoyante_ as you like.” He laughed happily, holding her to him. On this visit she seemed glad of his love, to depend upon and need him. He always had that for which to be glad. In truth that weakness of which she spoke, and which was the cause, or perhaps the effect, of two unmistakable heart attacks, had left her in the mood for Gabriel Stanton, his serious tenderness, and deep, almost overwhelming devotion. She was a whimsical, strange little creature, genius as she called herself, and for the moment had ceased to act. The weather changed, it rained almost continuously from Saturday night until Monday morning. They spent the time between the music room and the uncongenial dining-room where they had their meals. On the sofa, she lay practically in his arms, she sheltered there. She had been frightened by her own agitation and uncertainty; the attacks that followed. And now believed that all she needed was calm; happy certainty; Gabriel Stanton. “Don’t make me care for you too much,” she said on one of these days. “I want you to rest me, not to get excited over you, to keep calm.” “I am here only for you to use. Think of me as refuge, sanctuary, what you will.” “A sort of cathedral?” “You may laugh at me. I like you to laugh at me. Why not as a cathedral, cool and restful?” “Cool and restful,” she repeated. “Yes, you are like that. But suppose I want to wander outside, restless creature that I am; suppose nothing you do satisfies me?” “I’ll do more.” “And after that?” “Always more.” There were no scenes between them; Gabriel was not the man for scenes, he was deeply happy, humbly happy, not knowing his own worth, much more careful of her than any woman could have been, and gentle beyond speech. Even in those days she wondered how it would be with her if she were well, robust, whether all these little cares would not irritate her, whether this was indeed the lover for her. There was something donnish and Oxonian about him. “I’m not sure I look upon you as a cathedral, whether it isn’t more as a college.” When he could not follow her he remained silent. “Think of me any way you want so long as you do think of me,” he said, after a pause. “I thought you would say that.” “Was it what you wanted me to say?” “I only want to hear you say you adore me. You say it so nicely too.” “Do I? I don’t know what I have done to deserve you.”