She could hardly have explained her disinclination.

Was it that his company had grown so stimulating and interesting to her, that it made her think too much of other things than the war ?--and so it seemed to separate her from George?
Her own quiet occupations--the needlework and knitting that she did for a neighbouring war workroom, the gathering and drying of the sphagnum moss, the visiting of a few convalescent soldiers, a daily portion of Wordsworth, and some books about him--these things were within her compass George knew all about them, for she chronicled them in her letters day by day.

She had a happy peaceful sense of communion with him while she was busy with them.

But Farrell's restless mind and wide culture at once tired and fascinated her.

He would often bring a volume of Shelley, or Pater, or Hardy, or some quite modern poet, in his pocket, and propose to read to her and Bridget, when the sketching was done.