She would have admitted indeed that it consisted of little more than the fact that his absences,however frequent and however long,always ended with his turning up again.It was nobody's business in the world but her own if that fact continued to be enough for her.It was of course not enough just in itself;what it had taken on to make it so was the extraordinary possession of the elements of his life that memory and attention had at last given her.There came a day when this possession on the girl's part actually seemed to enjoy between them,while their eyes met,a tacit recognition that was half a joke and half a deep solemnity.He bade her good morning always now;he often quite raised his hat to her.He passed a remark when there was time or room,and once she went so far as to say to him that she hadn't seen him for "ages.""Ages"was the word she consciously and carefully,though a trifle tremulously used;"ages"was exactly what she meant.To this he replied in terms doubtless less anxiously selected,but perhaps on that account not the less remarkable,"Oh yes,hasn't it been awfully wet?"That was a specimen of their give and take;it fed her fancy that no form of intercourse so transcendent and distilled had ever been established on earth.Everything,so far as they chose to consider it so,might mean almost anything.The want of margin in the cage,when he peeped through the bars,wholly ceased to be appreciable.It was a drawback only in superficial commerce.
With Captain Everard she had simply the margin of the universe.It may be imagined therefore how their unuttered reference to all she knew about him could in this immensity play at its ease.Every time he handed in a telegram it was an addition to her knowledge:
what did his constant smile mean to mark if it didn't mean to mark that?He never came into the place without saying to her in this manner:"Oh yes,you have me by this time so completely at your mercy that it doesn't in the least matter what I give you now.
You've become a comfort,I assure you!"
She had only two torments;the greatest of which was that she couldn't,not even once or twice,touch with him on some individual fact.She would have given anything to have been able to allude to one of his friends by name,to one of his engagements by date,to one of his difficulties by the solution.She would have given almost as much for just the right chance--it would have to be tremendously right--to show him in some sharp sweet way that she had perfectly penetrated the greatest of these last and now lived with it in a kind of heroism of sympathy.He was in love with a woman to whom,and to any view of whom,a lady-telegraphist,and especially one who passed a life among hams and cheeses,was as the sand on the floor;and what her dreams desired was the possibility of its somehow coming to him that her own interest in him could take a pure and noble account of such an infatuation and even of such an impropriety.As yet,however,she could only rub along with the hope that an accident,sooner or later,might give her a lift toward popping out with something that would surprise and perhaps even,some fine day,assist him.What could people mean moreover--cheaply sarcastic people--by not feeling all that could be got out of the weather?SHE felt it all,and seemed literally to feel it most when she went quite wrong,speaking of the stuffy days as cold,of the cold ones as stuffy,and betraying how little she knew,in her cage,of whether it was foul or fair.It was for that matter always stuffy at Cocker's,and she finally settled down to the safe proposition that the outside element was "changeable."Anything seemed true that made him so radiantly assent.
