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She had feared nothing in him, because she had felt that she
understood him thoroughly. She had read the gay innocence of his
temperament rightly, and so she had never tried to hold him back from
his pleasures, to keep him always with her, as many women would have
done.
And she clung to the memory of her understanding of Maurice as she
faced the mist that had swept up softly and silently over that sea and
sky which had been clear. He had been simple. There was nothing to
dread in cleverness, in complexity. One got lost in a nature that was
full of winding paths. Just then, and for the time, she forgot her
love of, even her passion for, mental things. The beauty of the
straight white road appealed to her. She saw it leading one onward to
the glory of the sun.
Vere and she did not see very much of each other during these days.
They met, of course, at meals, and often for a few minutes at other
times. But it seemed as if each tacitly, and almost instinctively,
sought to avoid any prolonged intercourse with the other.


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