ving even, it seemed to her, a certain pleasure in its hardness, its inequalities. Perhaps this was the artistic interest, the dramatic interest; but to Teresa now it seemed cruel to enjoy the sight of such a world, to use it as material for art. The impersonal side of Basil presented itself to her as a cool, observing eye, a firm noting hand; apart from his own human interests, he was not moved—the mass of misery did not move him. He dissociated himself from it completely. His attitude was: "I did not make this world—I'm not responsible for it—I can't help it. I can only observe it, recognise it for what it is—and make my own particular life out of it, a satisfaction to myself." Basil was selfish, egotistic, hard—but he loved her, and she loved him. A sudden need to be near him came upon her. She got up and went into his room.
The winter dawn was faintly beginning. He was asleep. His relaxed face looked sad, but sleep gave it also a curiously young expression, a strange beauty. She crept into the bed beside him; half waking, he put his arm about her, and murmured something softly. They had quarrelled bitterly the day before. But now, comforted to the soul by his nearness, and the word of endearment that had come unconsciously from the deep feeling that united them, from the depths below all surface storms, Teresa, too, could sleep.
