sh she was my class. I wouldn't mind seeing her home."

Just before she was out of sight of Lady Sellingworth's house Miss Van
Tuyn looked back again. The light was gone. She knew that the door was
shut and she shivered. She felt shut out. What was she going to do? She
was going back to Claridge's of course. But--after that? She longed
to take counsel with someone, with someone who was strong and clear
brained, and who really cared for her. But who did care for her? Perhaps
for the first time in her life she was the victim of sentimentality, of
what she would have thought of certainly as sentimentality in another.
A sort of yearning for affection came to her. A wave of self-pity swept
over her. Her independence of spirit was in abeyance or dead. Arabian,
it seemed, had struck her down to the ground. She felt humiliated,
terrified, and strangely, horribly young, like a child almost who had
been cruelly treated. She thought of her dead father. If he had been
alive and near could she have gone to him? No; for years he had not
cared very much about her. He had been kind, had given her plenty of
money, but he had been immersed in pleasures and had always been in the
hands of some woman or other. He had not really loved her. No one, she
thought with desperation, had ever really loved her. She did not ask
herself whether that was her fault, whether she had ever given to anyone
what she wanted so terribly now, whether she had any right to expect
generosity of feeling when she herself was niggardly. She was stricken
in her vanity and, because of that, she had come down to the dust.

It was frightful to her to think, to be obliged to think, that Arabian
all this time had looked upon her as a prey, had marked her down as a
prey. She understood everything now, his fixed gaze at her in the Cafe
Royal when she had seen him for the first time, his coming to Garstin's
studio, his subtle acting through the early days of their acquaintance.
She understood his careful self-repression, his reticence, his evident
reluctance to be painted, overcome no doubt by two desires--the desire
to become intimate with her, and the desire to possess eventually a
piece of work that would be worth a great deal of money. She understood
the determination not to allow his portrait to be exhibited. She
understood the look in his face when she had told him of her father's
sudden death, the change in his demeanour to her since he had known
the fact, the desire