Mr. Shatov’s quiet waiting had ended in a flow of eager talk. She turned unwillingly. Even he could go on, leaving things unfinished, talking about something else. … But his mind was steady. The things that were there would not drop away. She would be able to consider them … watching the effect of the light of other minds upon the things that floated in her own mind; so dreadfully few now that he was beginning to look at them; and all ending with the images of people who had said them, or the bindings of books where she had found them set down … yet she felt familiar with all points of view. Every generalisation gave her the clue to the speaker’s mind … wanting to hear no more, only to criticise what was said by pointing out, whether she agreed with it or no, the opposite point of view. …
She smiled encouragingly towards his talk, hurriedly summoning an appearance of attention into her absent eyes while she contemplated his glowing pallor and the gaze of unconscious wide intelligence, shining not only towards her own, but also with such undisturbed intentness upon what he was describing. She could think later on, next year, when he had gone away leaving her to confront her world with a fresh armoury. As long as he stayed, he would be there, without effort or encouragement from her, filling her spare hours with his untired beauty, drawing her along his carefully spun English phrases, away from personal experiences, into a world going on independently of them; unaware of the many scattered interests waiting for her beyond this shabby room, and yet making them shine as he talked, newly alight with rich superfluous impersonal fascination, no longer isolated, but vivid parts of a whole, growing more and more intelligible as he carried her further and further into a life he saw so distinctly, that he made it hers, too quickly for her to keep account of the inpouring wealth. …