She saw all these
things; but she did not see that his romantic youth lay dying in the
pathos of his eyes and that if it pleaded still it pleaded forgiveness
for the sin of dying.
His hand fell slackly from hers as she took it.
It was as if they were still on their guard, still afraid of each
other's touch.
As he sat in the chair that faced hers he held his hands clasped
loosely in front of him, and looked at them with a curious attention,
as if he wondered what kind of hands they were that could resist
holding her.
When he saw that she was looking at him they fell apart with a nervous
gesture.
They picked up the book she had laid down and turned it. His eyes
examined the title page. Their pathos lightened and softened; it
became compassion; they smiled at her with a little pitiful smile,
half tender, half ironic, as if they said, "Poor Gwenda, is that what
you're driven to?"
He opened the book and turned the pages, reading a little here and
there.
He scowled. His look changed. It darkened. It was angry, resentful,
inimical. The dying youth in it came a little nearer to death.
Rowcliffe had found that he could not understand what he had read.
"Huh! What do you addle your brains with that stuff for?" he said.
"It amuses me."
"Oh--so long as you're amused."
He pushed away the book that had offended him.
They talked--about the Vicar, about Alice, about Rowcliffe's children,
about the changes in the Dale, the coming of the Maceys and the going
of young Grierson.
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