He was silent, swinging the compass on his watch-chain to and fro, and thinking of Scott’s novels and Balzac’s novels. But through the crepuscular walls of their intimacy, for they were drawing together, involuntarily, coming side by side, quite close, she could feel his mind like a raised hand shadowing her mind; and he was beginning now that her thoughts took a turn he disliked⁠—towards this “pessimism” as he called it⁠—to fidget, though he said nothing, raising his hand to his forehead, twisting a lock of hair, letting it fall again.

“You won’t finish that stocking tonight,” he said, pointing to her stocking. That was what she wanted⁠—the asperity in his voice reproving her. If he says it’s wrong to be pessimistic probably it is wrong, she thought; the marriage will turn out all right.

“No,” she said, flattening the stocking out upon her knee, “I shan’t finish it.”