There was in Norah a maternal instinct which received satisfaction in her love for Philip; she wanted someone to pet, and scold, and make a fuss of; she had a domestic temperament and found pleasure in looking after his health and his linen.
She pitied his deformity, over which he was so sensitive, and her pity expressed itself instinctively in tenderness.
She was young, strong, and healthy, and it seemed quite natural to her to give her love.
She had high spirits and a merry soul.
She liked Philip because he laughed with her at all the amusing things in life that caught her fancy, and above all she liked him because he was he.
When she told him this he answered gaily:
"Nonsense.
You like me because I'm a silent person and never want to get a word in."
Philip did not love her at all.
He was extremely fond of her, glad to be with her, amused and interested by her conversation.
She restored his belief in himself and put healing ointments, as it were, on all the bruises of his soul.
He was immensely flattered that she cared for him.
He admired her courage, her optimism, her impudent defiance of fate; she had a little philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical.
"You know, I don't believe in churches and parsons and all that," she said, "but I believe in God, and I don't believe He minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile when you can.
And I think people on the whole are very nice, and I'm sorry for those who aren't."
"And what about afterwards?" asked Philip.
"Oh, well, I don't know for certain, you know," she smiled, "but I hope for the best.
And anyhow there'll be no rent to pay and no novelettes to write."
She had a feminine gift for delicate flattery.
She thought that Philip did a brave thing when he left Paris because he was conscious he could not be a great artist; and he was enchanted when she expressed enthusiastic admiration for him.
He had never been quite certain whether this action indicated courage or infirmity of purpose. It was delightful to realise that she considered it heroic.
She ventured to tackle him on a subject which his friends instinctively avoided.
"It's very silly of you to be so sensitive about your club-foot," she said.
She saw him blush darkly, but went on. "You know, people don't think about it nearly as much as you do.
They notice it the first time they see you, and then they forget about it."
He would not answer.
"You're not angry with me, are you?"
"No."
She put her arm round his neck.
"You know, I only speak about it because I love you.
I don't want it to make you unhappy."
"I think you can say anything you choose to me," he answered, smiling. "I wish I could do something to show you how grateful I am to you."
She took him in hand in other ways.
She would not let him be bearish and laughed at him when he was out of temper.
She made him more urbane.
"You can make me do anything you like," he said to her once.
"D'you mind?"
"No, I want to do what you like."
He had the sense to realise his happiness.
It seemed to him that she gave him all that a wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was the most charming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had never found in a man.
The sexual relationship was no more than the strongest link in their friendship.
It completed it, but was not essential.
And because Philip's appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and easier to live with.
He felt in complete possession of himself.
He thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing for Mildred and with horror of himself.
His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested in them as he.
He was flattered and touched by her eagerness.
She made him promise to come at once and tell her the results.
He passed the three parts this time without mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst into tears.
"Oh, I'm so glad, I was so anxious."