Howard began to resume his work; it was enough that Maud
should sit by, reading, working, writing. A glance would pass
between them and suffice.
One day Howard laid down his pen, and looking up, having finished a
chapter, saw that Maud's eyes were fixed upon him with an anxious
intentness. She was sitting in a low chair near the fire, and an
open book lay disregarded on her knee. He went across to her and
sat down on a low chair beside her, taking her hand in his.
"What is it, dear child?" he said. "Am I very selfish and stupid to
sit here without a word like this?"
Maud put her lips to his hand, and laughed a contented laugh. "Oh
no, no," she said; "I like to see you hard at work--there seems no
need to say anything--it's just you and me!"
"Well," said Howard, "you must just tell me what you were thinking--
you had travelled a long way beyond that."
"Not out of your reach," said Maud; "I was just thinking how
different men and women were, and how I liked you to be different.
I was remembering how awfully mysterious you were at first--so full
to the brim of strange things which I could not fathom. I always
seemed to be dislodging something I had never thought of. I used to
wonder how you could find time, in the middle of it all, to care
about me: you were always giving me something. But now it has all
grown so much simpler and more wonderful too. It's like what you
said about Cambridge long ago, the dark secret doorways, the hidden
gardens; I see now that all those ideas and thoughts are only
things you are carrying with you, like luggage.
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