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She felt
again the hot dry atmosphere. She heard the ceaseless buzzing of the
flies. How pale his face had been, how weak his body! He had returned
to the weakness of a child. He had depended upon her. That fact, that
he had for a time utterly depended upon her, had forged a new link in
their friendship, the strongest link of all. At least she had felt it
to be so. For she was very much of a woman, and full of a secret
motherliness.
But perhaps he had forgotten all that.
In these days she often felt as if she did not understand men at all,
as if their natures were hidden from her, and perhaps, of necessity,
from all women.
"We can't understand each other."
She often said that to herself, and partly to comfort herself a
little. She did not want to be only one of a class of women from whom
men's natures were hidden.
And yet it was not true.
For Maurice, at least, she had understood. She had not feared his
gayeties, his boyish love of pleasure, his passion for the sun, his
joy in the peasant life, his almost fierce happiness in the life of
the body.


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