At times he could even have imagined her a little cross with him, but that never lasted.

Yet still when they met, Joan seemed farther off than when they parted the day before.

It is true they almost always seemed to get back to nearly the same place before they parted again, and Cosmo tried to persuade himself that any change there might be was only the result of growing familiarity; but not the less did he find himself ever again mourning over something that was gone--a delicate colour on the verge of the meeting sky and sea of their two natures.
But how differently the hours went when she was with him, and when he lay thinking whether she was coming! His heart swelled like a rose-bud ready to burst into a flaming flower when she drew near, and folded itself together when she went, as if to save up all its perfume and strength for her return! Everything he read that pleased him, must be shared with Joan--must serve as an atmosphere of thought in which to draw nigh to each other.

Everything beautiful he saw twice--with his own eyes namely, and as he imagined it in the eyes of Joan: he was always trying to see things as he thought she would see them.

Not once while recovering did he care to read a thing he thought she would not enjoy--though everything he liked, he said to himself, she must enjoy some day.
Soon he made a discovery concerning himself that troubled him greatly: not once since he was ill had he buried himself in the story of Jesus! not once had he lost himself in prayer! not once since finding Joan had he been flooded with a glory as from the presence of the living One, or had any such vision of truth as used every now and then to fill him like the wine of the new world which is the old! Lady Joan saw that he was sad, and questioned him.