'I won't, if you're sure you know everything. Do you?'

'Every single thing.'

'And you care?'

'Yes.' She drew a breath. 'I care--beyond speaking of it. Francis, not
a word!'

It was extraordinary, it was inexplicable, but it was true and happily
beyond the region of regrets, for if she had married him years ago she
would never have loved him in this miraculous, sudden way, with this
passion of tenderness, this desire to make him happy, this terrible
conviction that she could not do it, this promise of suffering for
herself. And the wonder of it was that he had no likeness to that
absurd Francis of whom she had dreamed and whom she had not loved; no
likeness, either, to the colossal tyrant. The man she loved was in
some ways weak, he was petulant, he was a baby, but he needed her and,
for a romantic and sentimental moment, she saw herself as his refuge,
his strength. She could not, must not communicate those thoughts. She
began to talk happily and serenely about ordinary things until she
remembered that she had lingered past her usual hour and that upstairs
Christabel must be listening for the sound of her horse's hoofs. She
started up.

'Will you fetch Peter for me?'

'If you will tell me when you are coming again.'

'One day next week.'