agreeable as Janet, at
worst she was appalling, and moreover he knew nothing about her. He had
a glimpse of her face as, with a little tightening of the lips, she shut
her umbrella. What was there in that face judged impartially? Why
should he be to so absurd a degree curious about her? He thought how
exquisitely delicious it would be to be walking with her by the shore of
a lovely lake on a summer evening, pale hills in the distance. He had
this momentary vision by reason of a coloured print of the "Silver
Strand" of a Scottish loch which was leaning in a gilt frame against the
artists' materials cabinet and was marked twelve-and-six. During the
day he had imagined himself with her in all kinds of beautiful spots and
situations. But the chief of his sensations was one of exquisite
relief... She had come. He could wreak his hungry curiosity upon her.

Yes, she was alone. No Janet! No Alicia! How had she managed it?
What had she said to the Orgreaves? That she should have come alone,
and through the November rain, in the night, affected him deeply. It
gave her the quality of a heroine of high adventure. It was as though
she had set sail unaided, in a frail skiff, on a formidable ocean, to
meet him. It was inexpressibly romantic and touching. She came towards
him, her face sedately composed. She wore a small hat, a veil, and a
mackintosh, and black gloves that were splashed with wet. Certainly she
was a practical woman. She had said she would come, and she had come,
sensibly, but how charmingly, protected against the shocking conditions
of the journey. There is naught charming in a mackintosh. And yet
there was, in this mackintosh! ... Something in the contrast between
its harshness and her fragility... The veil was supremely charming.
She had half lifted it, exposing her mouth; the upper part of her
flushed face was caged behind the bars of the veil; behind those bars
her eyes mysteriously gleamed... Spanish! ... No exaggeration in all
this! He felt every bit of it honestly, as he stood at the counter in
thrilled expectancy. By virtue of his impassioned curiosity, the
terraces of Granada and the mantillas of senoritas were not more
romantic than he had made his father's shop and her dripping mackintosh.
He tried to see her afresh; he tried to see her as though he had never
seen her before; he tried desperately once again to comprehend what it
was in her that piqued him. And he could not. He