RODERICK HUDSON
you've lived very comfortably!" And she surveyed the scene as in vague reprehension and as finding in the accumulated loveliness of the hour something shameless and unholy.
They were silent after this for some time, but at last Rowland addressed to the girl some tentative idle word. She made no reply, and he turned to look at her. She was sitting motionless, with her head pressed to Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, and the latter lady was gazing at him through the silvered dusk with an air that gave a sort of spectral solemnity to the sad weak meaning of her eyes. She might have been for the moment a little old malevolent fairy. Mary, Rowland perceived in an instant, was not absolutely motionless; some strange agitation had shaken her. She was softly crying, or about so to cry, and unable to trust herself to speak. Rowland left his place and wandered to another part of the garden, affected by this sudden access and asking himself what had determined it. Of women's weeping in general he had a developed dread, but this particular appearance moved him to odd rejoicing. When he returned to his place Mary had raised her head and composed her aspect. She came away from Mrs. Hudson, and they stood for a short time together, leaning against the parapet.
"It seems to you very strange, I suppose," Rowland presently said, "that there should have to be anxiety and pain in such a world as this."
"I used to think," she answered, "that if any trouble came to me I should bear it like a stoic. But that was at home, where things don't speak to us of
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