whenever she tried to force
a bit of food between her trembling lips. All the casual interests with
which she filled her days, those seemingly small, yet actually
tremendous interests without which daily life becomes almost unlivable,
flagged suddenly and died while she sat there. Nothing mattered any
longer, neither the universe nor that little circle of it which she
inhabited, neither life nor death, neither Oliver's success nor the food
which she was trying to eat. This strange sickness which had fallen upon
her affected not only her soul and body, but everything that surrounded
her, every person or object at which she looked, every stranger in the
street below, every roof which she could see sharply outlined against
the glittering blue of the sky. Something had passed out of them all,
some essential quality which united them to reality, some inner secret
of being without which the animate and the inanimate alike became no
better than phantoms. The spirit which made life vital had gone out of
the world. And she felt that this would always be so, that the next
minute and the next year and all the years that came afterwards would
bring to her merely the effort of living--since Life, having used her
for its dominant purpose, had no further need of her. Once only the
thought occurred to her that there were women who might keep their own
even now by fighting against the loss of it, by passionately refusing to
surrender what they could no longer hold as a gift. But with the idea
there came also that self-knowledge which told her that she was not one
of these. The strength in her was the strength of passiveness; she could
endure, but she could not battle. Long ago, as long ago as the night on
which she had watched in the shadow of death beside Harry's bed, she
had lost that energy of soul which had once flamed up in her with her
three days' jealousy of Abby. It was her youth and beauty then which had
inspirited her, and she was wise enough to know that the passions which
become youth appear ridiculous in middle-age.

Having drunk his coffee, Oliver passed his cup to her, and laid down his
paper.

"You look tired, Virginia. I hope it hasn't been too much for you?"

"Oh, no. Have you quite got over your headache?"

"Pretty much, but those lights last night were rather trying. Don't put
any cream in this time. I want the stimulant."

"Perhaps it has got cold. Shall I ring for fresh?"

"It doesn't matter. This will do qu