We sat there
evening after evening in the quiet of that
magically haunted room, and watched the
sunset burn on the river, and felt him.
Felt him with a difference, of course."
Hilda leaned forward, her elbow on her knee,
her chin on her hand. "With a difference?
Because of her, you mean?"
Wilson's brow wrinkled. "Something like that, yes.
Of course, as time goes on, to her he becomes
more and more their simple personal relation."
Hilda studied the droop of the Professor's
head intently. "You didn't altogether like
that? You felt it wasn't wholly fair to him?"
Wilson shook himself and readjusted his
glasses. "Oh, fair enough. More than fair.
Of course, I always felt that my image of him
was just a little different from hers.
No relation is so complete that it can hold
absolutely all of a person. And I liked him
just as he was; his deviations, too;
the places where he didn't square."
Hilda considered vaguely. "Has she
grown much older?" she asked at last.
"Yes, and no. In a tragic way she is even
handsomer. But colder. Cold for everything
but him. `Forget thyself to marble'; I kept
thinking of that. Her happiness was a
happiness a deux, not apart from the world,
but actually against it. And now her grief is like
that. She saves herself for it and doesn't even
go through the form of seeing people much.
I'm sorry. It would be better for her, and
might be so good for them, if she could let
other people in.
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