Sons and Lovers - Daimon Club

When he was at his work, painting in the afternoon,
she would come and stand near to him, perfectly motionless.
Then he felt her, though she neither spoke nor touched him.
Although she stood a yard away he felt as if he were in contact
with her. Then he could paint no more. He flung down the brushes,
and turned to talk to her.
Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical
and cold.
"You are affected in that piece," she would say; and, as there
was an element of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled
with anger.
Again: "What of this?" he would ask enthusiastically.
"H'm!" She made a small doubtful sound. "It doesn't interest
me much."
"Because you don't understand it," he retorted.