She suddenly
realised now with a little surprised shock how bitterly she would miss it
all were it to cease. In the darkened room, with the storm blowing outside,
she felt her loneliness with an acute wave of emotion and self-pity that
was very unlike her. If Peter were to go, she felt, she could scarcely
endure to live on in the dreary building.
Part of his charm from the beginning had been that he was so astoundingly
young, part of his interest that he could be, at times, so amazingly old.
She felt that she herself could be equal neither to his youth nor his
age. She was herself so ordinary a person, but watching him made the most
fascinating occupation, and speculating over his future made the most
wonderful dreams. That he was a personality, that he might do anything, she
had always believed, but there had, until now, been no proof of it in any
work that he had done ... he had had nothing to show ... now at last there
lay there, with her in the room, the evidence of her belief--his book.
But the book seemed now, at this moment, of small account and, as she
watched him, with the candle-light and the last flicker of the fire-light
upon his face, she saw that he had forgotten her and was back again, soul
and spirit, amongst the things of which he was speaking.
His voice was low and monotonous, his eyes staring straight in front of
him, his hands, spread on his knees, gripped the cloth of his trousers.
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