She was blithely unconscious of him. He came back, hanging near to her.

“Can't you do anything?” she said, as if to a child, impatiently. “Can't you do your wood-work?”

“Where shall I do it?” he asked, harsh with pain.

“Anywhere.”

How furious that made him.

“Or go for a walk,” she continued. “Go down to the Marsh. Don't hang about as if you were only half there.”

He winced and hated it. He went away to read. Never had his soul felt so flayed and uncreated.

And soon he must come down again to her. His hovering near her, wanting her to be with him,