ack surface.

"I did so mean to be happy when I got among the English," she sobbed. "I
thought England was a light-minded, cheerful kind of place. But I'll
just go back to Edinburgh." She jumped up and went to the wardrobe and
looked at her dresses hanging there, and cried: "It'll waste them
terribly if I pack them without tissue paper, and I can't ring with my
face in this pickle." There was not even a newspaper by to stuff into
her shoes. Suddenly she wanted her mother, who had always packed and
found things for her and who had been so very female, so completely
guiltless of this excess of blood that was maleness. It would be
dreadful to go back to Edinburgh and find no mother; and it would be
dreadful to leave Richard. The light of reason showed that as a
necessary and noble journey towards economic and spiritual independence
it somehow proved her, she felt, worthy of having a vote. But her flesh,
which she curiously felt to be more in touch with her soul than was her
mind, was appalled by her intention. It would be an unnatural flight.
What had been between Richard and herself had mingled them in some real
way, so that if she went back and lived without him she would be
crippled, and that, too, in a real way: so real that she would suffer
pain from it every day until she died, and that children would notice it
and laugh at it when she got to be old and walked rusty and unmarried
about the town.

Yet she could not stay here now when she had seen Richard red and glazed
and like those wranglers in the street, and not pale and fine-grained
and more splendid and deliberate than kings. She could not tell what her
life might come to if she trusted it into the sweaty hands of this man
whom, as it turned out, she did not know. Which of these horrid paths to
disappointment must she tread? In her brooding she stared at her face in
the glass which Marion had bought for her and noted how inappropriate
the sad image was to the gay green and gold wood that framed it. It
struck her how typical it was of Marion that the gaiety of a gift from
her should, a day after the giving, become a wounding irony, and she was
overwhelmed by a double hatred of this home and what had just happened
to her in it.

She flung herself again on the bed and tried to lose herself in weeping,
but had to see before her mind's eye the gorgeous seaworthy galleon that
her love had been till this last hour. It seemed impossible that a
vessel that had so prou