The Well of Loneliness

They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to do, Mary's bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance -- she had Puddle's old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country, spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for Deauville -- his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain for a month -- but what did they want that summer with people? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary, leading the girl's adaptable mind into new and hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said:

"Stephen -- if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could dream true?"