He searched his mind for something to please her.
"I was just thinking how wonderful it was to sit here together in silence, and yet each of us knowing everything the other was thinking and feeling."
But it was no good. He saw one of her moods coming over her as clearly as he had seen the bright fluidity of water dull and harden in freezing cold. Moods called by Christabel herself, as he had read in her Secret Journal, "those dark cold tides that drown me." He tried again, apprehensively:
"You look so beautiful in this dim light."
It did not need the sound that from anyone else he would have called a snort, to tell him that could have been better. He hurried on:
"I'm always afraid of being too rough with you—of shattering something exquisite by a touch or a word when you look the way you're looking now."
She relaxed enough to lay her hand on him lightly, as if in accolade.
