No wonder he was always urging her to go home—haunted as he was by the feeling of having put her in a prison and, no wonder, not having his iron character, she had finally succumbed—as she so often succumbed to his unselfishness.
How she was loving England! The wet, heavy air—the sky curtained with clouds—the drenched leaves—the saturated flowers—the damp breathing earth—the distant lethargic sun. She could feel a pulse in the sopping soil and her heart beat with it.
Finding her friends too was such an adventure. What struck her most about them was that they seemed so stationary. There they were, just as she had left them, doing the same things, thinking the same things, saying the same things—fixed points with their lives revolving round them, seeming to have lost the capacity for independent motion.
She and Robert were not like that. Thank God, they were still pilgrims. After all, her life had been a big spacious thing in spite of India, because of India and, even more, because of Robert. Only she did not want to think about it now. Just to go on repeating to herself: “I’m at home. I’m in England.”
And she was going to stay with St. John. How excited she would have been four years ago. How her heart had beaten when she heard his footsteps, how she had thrilled when he had said “dear” to her. She remembered the care he had taken of her, the beautiful considerate devotion he had always shown her when she was longing so passionately for other things, trying with all her might and main to make him lose his head. How badly she had behaved. She could wonder now dispassionately whether he had ever been in love with her. On the whole, she thought, he never had. If she had not been married—it was a silly “if.” The most he had said was “you make things very