E who was the soulless one, the dry, the godless one; who,
in his sickening superiority, could thus deny her, and with her all
women! That stare was as if he saw her--a doll tricked out in garments
labelled soul, spirit, rights, responsibilities, dignity, freedom--all so
many words. It was vile, it was horrible, that he should see her thus!
And a really terrific struggle began in her between the desire to get up
and cry this out, and the knowledge that it would be stupid, undignified,
even mad, to show her comprehension of what he would never admit or even
understand that he had revealed to her. And then a sort of cynicism came
to her rescue. What a funny thing was married life--to have lived all
these years with him, and never known what was at the bottom of his
heart! She had the feeling now that, if she went up to him and said: "I
am in love with that boy!" it would only make him droop the corners of
his mouth and say in his most satiric voice: "Really! That is very
interesting!"--would not change in one iota his real thoughts of her;
only confirm him in the conviction that she was negligible, inexplicable,
an inferior strange form of animal, of no real interest to him.

And then, just when she felt that she could not hold herself in any
longer, he got up, passed on tiptoe to the door, opened it noiselessly,
and went out.

The moment he had gone, she jumped up. So, then, she was linked to one
for whom she, for whom women, did not, as it were, exist! It seemed to
her that she had stumbled on knowledge of almost sacred importance, on
the key of everything that had been puzzling and hopeless in their
married life. If he really, secretly, whole-heartedly despised her, the
only feeling she need have for one so dry, so narrow, so basically
stupid, was just contempt. But she knew well enough that contempt would
not shake what she had seen in his face; he was impregnably walled within
his clever, dull conviction of superiority. He was for ever intrenched,
and she would always be only the assailant. Though--what did it matter,
now?

Usually swift, almost careless, she was a long time that evening over her
toilette. Her neck was very sunburnt, and she lingered, doubtful whether
to hide it with powder, or accept her gipsy colouring. She did accept
it, for she saw that it gave her eyes, so like glacier ice, under their
black lashes, and her hair, with its surprising glints of flame colour, a
peculiar value.

Wh