of that fetich 'Hardness,' to the unconscious worship of which she had
been brought up. To stand no sentiment or nonsense either in herself or
others was the first article of faith; not to slop-over anywhere. So
that to feel as she did was almost horrible to Barbara. Yet she could
not get rid of the sensation. With sudden recklessness she tried giving
herself up to it entirely. Undoing the scarf at her throat, she let the
air play on her bared neck, and stretched out her arms as if to hug the
wind to her; then, with a sigh, she got up, and walked on. And now she
began thinking of 'Anonyma'; turning her position over and over. The
idea that anyone young and beautiful should thus be clipped off in her
life, roused her impatient indignation. Let them try it with her! They
would soon see! For all her cultivated 'hardness,' Barbara really hated
anything to suffer. It seemed to her unnatural. She never went to that
hospital where Lady Valleys had a ward, nor to their summer camp for
crippled children, nor to help in their annual concert for sweated
workers, without a feeling of such vehement pity that it was like being
seized by the throat: Once, when she had been singing to them, the rows
of wan, pinched faces below had been too much for her; she had broken
down, forgotten her words, lost memory of the tune, and just ended her
performance with a smile, worth more perhaps to her audience than those
lost verses. She never came away from such sights and places without a
feeling of revolt amounting almost to rage; and she only continued to go
because she dimly knew that it was expected of her not to turn her back
on such things, in her section of Society.

But it was not this feeling which made her stop before Mrs. Noel's
cottage; nor was it curiosity. It was a quite simple desire to squeeze
her hand.

'Anonyma' seemed taking her trouble as only those women who are no good
at self-assertion can take things--doing exactly as she would have done
if nothing had happened; a little paler than usual, with lips pressed
rather tightly together.

They neither of them spoke at first, but stood looking, not at each
other's faces, but at each other's breasts. At last Barbara stepped
forward impulsively and kissed her.

After that, like two children who kiss first, and then make acquaintance,
they stood apart, silent, faintly smiling. It had been given and
returned in real sweetness and comradeship, that kiss, for a sign