Majendie was unaware how far he had become another man and she another woman.  He was merely alive to the unusual and agreeable excitement of wooing his own wife.  There was a piquancy in the experiment that appealed to him.  Her new coldness called to him like a challenge.  Her new remoteness waked the adventurous youth in him.  His imagination was touched as it had not been touched before.  He could see that Anne had not yet got over her discovery.  The shock of it was in her nerves.  He felt that she shrank from him, and his chivalry still spared her.

He ceased to be her husband and became her very courteous, very distant lover.  He made no claims, and took nothing for granted.  He simply began all over again from the very beginning.  His conscience was vaguely appeased by the illusion of the new leaf, the rejuvenated innocence of the blank page.  They had never been married (so the illusion suggested).  There had been no revelations.  They met as strangers in their own house, at their own table.  In support of this pleasing fiction he set about his courtship with infinite precautions.  He found himself exaggerating Anne’s distance and the lapse of intimacy.  He made his way slowly, through all the recognised degrees, from mere acquaintance, through friendship to permissible fervour.

And from time to time, with incomparable discretion, he would withhold himself that he might make himself more precious.  He was hardly aware of his own restraint, his refinements of instinct and of mood.  It was as if he drew, in his desperate necessity, upon unrealised, untried resources.  There was something in Anne that checked the primitive impulse of swift chase, and called forth the curious half-feminine cunning of the sophisticated pursuer.  She froze at his ardour, but his coldness almost kindled her, so that he approached by withdrawals and advanced by flights.

He displayed, first of all, a heavenly ignorance, an inspired curiosity regarding her.  He consulted her tastes, as if he had never known them; he started the time-honoured lovers’ topics; he talked about books—­which she preferred and the reasons for her preference.

He did not advance very far that way.  Anne was simply annoyed at the lapses in his memory.

He then began to buy books on the chance of her liking them, which answered better.

He promoted himself by degrees to personalities.  He talked to her about herself, handling her with religious reticence as a thing of holy and incomprehensible mystery.

“I suppose,” he said one day, “if I were good enough, I should understand you.  Why do you sigh like that?  Is it because I’m not good enough?  Or because I don’t understand?”

“I think,” said she, “it is because I don’t understand you.”

“My dear” (he allowed himself at this point the more formal endearment), “I thought I was disgracefully transparent—­I’m limpidity, simplicity itself.  I’ve only one idea and one subject of conversation.  Ask Edith.  She understands me.”