"Where do I put my name?"
"But you must read them first."
"I shouldn't understand them a bit," she said; "and what is the use of employing a lawyer, if one is put to the trouble of reading everything one signs?"
"Well—please yourself. To-morrow you will have to go before a commissioner4 for oaths and swear that certain things are true; you'll be compelled to read the affidavits5."
"That I won't! I shall just swear."
"But you simply must."
"Sha'n't. If I swear to fibs, it will be your fault."
"Suppose I read them out to you?"
"Yes, that would be nicer; but not now, after supper."
For a few moments there was silence. She stood up and drew her finger in fanciful curves across the window-pane. Richard watched her, with a smile of luxurious6 content. It appeared to him that all her movements, every inflection of her voice, her least word, had the authenticity7 and the intrinsic grace of natural phenomena8. If she turned her head or tapped her foot, the gesture was right,—having the propriety9 which springs from absolute self-unconsciousness. Her mere10 existence from one moment to the next seemed in some mysterious way to suggest a possible solution of the riddle11 of life. She illustrated12 nature. She was for him intimately a part of nature, the great Nature which hides itself from cities. To look at her afforded him a delight curiously13 similar to that which the townsman derives14 from a rural landscape. Her face had little conventional beauty; her conversation contained no hint either of intellectual powers or of a capacity for deep feeling. But in her case, according to his view, these things were unnecessary, would in fact have been superfluous15. She was and that sufficed.
Mingled16 with the pleasure which her nearness gave him, there were subordinate but distinct sensations. Except his sister Mary, he had never before been upon terms of close familiarity with any woman, and he realised with elation17 that now for the first time the latencies of manhood were aroused. His friendship—if indeed it were nothing else—with this gracious, inscrutable creature seemed a thing to be very proud of, to gloat upon in secret, to contemplate18 with a dark smile as one walked along the street or sat in a bus.... And then, with a shock of joyful19, half-incredulous surprise, he made the discovery that she—she—had found some attractiveness in himself.
Their loneliness gave zest20 and piquancy21 to the situation. On neither side were there relatives or friends who might obtrude22, or whom it would be proper to consult. They had only themselves to consider. Not a soul in London, with the exception of Lottie, knew of their intimacy,—the visit to Littlehampton, their plans for visiting the theatres, her touching23 reliance upon him. Ah, that confiding24 feminine trust! He read it frequently in her glance, and it gave him a sense of protective possession. He had approached no closer than to shake her hand, and yet, as he looked at the slight frame, the fragile fingers, the tufts of hair which escaped over her ears,—these things seemed to be his. Surely she had donned that beautiful dress for him; surely she moved gracefully25 for him, talked softly for him!
He left his chair, quietly lighted the candles at the piano, and began to turn over some songs.
"What are you doing?" she asked, from the window.
"I want you to sing."
"Must I?"
"Certainly. Let me find something with an easy accompaniment."
She came towards him, took up a song, opened it, and bade him look at it.
"Too difficult," he said abruptly
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