CHAPTER XI

“It’slifethatmatters,nothingbutlife—theprocessofdiscovering,theeverlastingandperpetualprocess,”saidKatharine,asshepassedunderthearchway,andsointothewidespaceofKing’sBenchWalk,“notthediscoveryitselfatall.”ShespokethelastwordslookingupatRodney’swindows,whichwereasemilucentredcolor,inherhonor,assheknew.Hehadaskedhertoteawithhim.Butshewasinamoodwhenitisalmostphysicallydisagreeabletointerruptthestrideofone’sthought,andshewalkedupanddowntwoorthreetimesunderthetreesbeforeapproachinghisstaircase.Shelikedgettingholdofsomebookwhichneitherherfatherormotherhadread,andkeepingittoherself,andgnawingitscontentsinprivacy,andponderingthemeaningwithoutsharingherthoughtswithanyone,orhavingtodecidewhetherthebookwasagoodoneorabadone.ThiseveningshehadtwistedthewordsofDostoevskytosuithermood—afatalisticmood—toproclaimthattheprocessofdiscoverywaslife,andthat,presumably,thenatureofone’sgoalmatterednotatall.Shesatdownforamomentupononeoftheseatsfeltherselfcarriedalongintheswirlofmanythingsdecided,inhersuddenway,thatitwastimetoheaveallthisthinkingoverboard,androse,leavingafishmonger’sbasketontheseatbehindher.TwominuteslaterherrapsoundedwithauthorityuponRodney’sdoor. “Well,William,”shesaid,“I’mafraidI’mlate.” Itwastrue,buthewassogladtoseeherthatheforgothisannoyance.Hehadbeenoccupiedforoveranhourinmakingthingsreadyforher,andhenowhadhisrewardinseeingherlookrightandleft,assheslippedhercloakfromhershoulders,withevidentsatisfaction,althoughshesaidnothing.Hehadseenthatthefireburntwelljam-potswereonthetable,tincoversshoneinthefender,andtheshabbycomfortoftheroomwasextreme.Hewasdressedinhisoldcrimsondressing-gown,whichwasfadedirregularly,andhadbrightnewpatchesonit,likethepalergrasswhichonefindsonliftingastone.Hemadethetea,andKatharinedrewoffhergloves,andcrossedherlegswithagesturethatwasrathermasculineinitsease.Nordidtheytalkmuchuntiltheyweresmokingcigarettesoverthefire,havingplacedtheirteacupsuponthefloorbetweenthem. Theyhadnotmetsincetheyhadexchangedlettersabouttheirrelationship.Katharine’sanswertohisprotestationhadbeenshortandsensible.Halfasheetofnotepapercontainedthewholeofit,forshemerelyhadtosaythatshewasnotinlovewithhim,andsocouldnotmarryhim,buttheirfriendshipwouldcontinue,shehoped,unchanged.Shehadaddedapostscriptinwhichshestated,“Ilikeyoursonnetverymuch.” SofarasWilliamwasconcerned,thisappearanceofeasewasassumed.Threetimesthatafternoonhehaddressedhimselfinatail-coat,andthreetimeshehaddiscardeditforanolddressing-gownthreetimeshehadplacedhispearltie-pininposition,andthreetimeshehadremoveditagain,thelittlelooking-glassinhisroombeingthewitnessofthesechangesofmind.Thequestionwas,whichwouldKatharinepreferonthisparticularafternooninDecember?Hereadhernoteoncemore,andthepostscriptaboutthesonnetsettledthematter.Evidentlysheadmiredmostthepoetinhimandasthis,onthewhole,agreedwithhisownopinion,hedecidedtoerr,ifanything,onthesideofshabbiness.Hisdemeanorwasalsoregulatedwithpremeditationhespokelittle,andonlyonimpersonalmattershewishedhertorealizethatinvisitinghimforthefirsttimealoneshewasdoingnothingrema