“You sit here and read?” she said, her eyes resting upon his books. He said that he was in the habit of working there at night.
“The great advantage of Highgate is the view over London. At night the view from my window is splendid.” He was extremely anxious that she should appreciate his view, and she rose to see what was to be seen. It was already dark enough for the turbulent haze to be yellow with the light of street lamps, and she tried to determine the quarters of the city beneath her. The sight of her gazing from his window gave him a peculiar satisfaction. When she turned, at length, he was still sitting motionless in his chair.
“It must be late,” she said. “I must be going.” She settled upon the arm of the chair irresolutely, thinking that she had no wish to go home. William would be there, and he would find some way of making things unpleasant for her, and the memory of their quarrel came back to her. She had noticed Ralph’s coldness, too. She looked at him, and from his fixed stare she thought that he must be working out some theory, some argument. He had thought, perhaps, of some fresh point in his position, as to the bounds of personal liberty. She waited, silently, thinking about liberty.
“You've won again,” he said at last, without moving.
“I’ve won?” she repeated, thinking of the argument.
“I wish to God I hadn’t asked you here,” he burst out.
“What do you mean?”
“When you're here, it’s different—I’m happy. You’ve only to walk to the window—you've only to talk about liberty. When I saw you down there among them all———” He stopped short.
“You thought how ordinary I was.”
“I tried to think so. But I thought you more wonderful than ever.”
