Gay was kind, he was gentle, he was even solicitous on
the rare occasions when she saw him; but somehow--in some way, it was
different from the ideal marriage of which she had dreamed. If he was
kind, he was also casual. She had hoped once that love would fill her
life, and now, to her despair, it looked as if it might be poured into
a tea-cup. She had imagined that it would move mountains, and the most
ordinary detail of living was sufficient to thrust it out of sight.
When she reached the brook, she saw Gay coming slowly along the Haunt's
Walk, to the spring. As he walked, he blew little clouds of smoke into
the air, and she thought, as he approached her, that the smell of his
cigar was unlike the cigar of any other man she knew--that it possessed,
in itself, a quality that was exciting and romantic. This trait in
his personality--a disturbing suggestion of the atmosphere of a richer
world--had fascinated her from the beginning, and after eighteen months
of repeated disappointments, it still held her, though she struggled now
in its power like a hare in a trap.
"So you're here!" he exclaimed as he reached her.
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