went on spinning out words.

"A girl is more lonely than a boy. No one cares in the least what she
does. Nothing's expected of her. Unless one's very pretty people don't
listen to what you say. . . . And that is what I like," she added
energetically, as if the memory were very happy. "I like walking in
Richmond Park and singing to myself and knowing it doesn't matter a damn
to anybody. I like seeing things go on--as we saw you that night when
you didn't see us--I love the freedom of it--it's like being the wind or
the sea." She turned with a curious fling of her hands and looked at the
sea. It was still very blue, dancing away as far as the eye could reach,
but the light on it was yellower, and the clouds were turning flamingo
red.

A feeling of intense depression crossed Hewet's mind as she spoke.
It seemed plain that she would never care for one person rather than
another; she was evidently quite indifferent to him; they seemed to
come very near, and then they were as far apart as ever again; and her
gesture as she turned away had been oddly beautiful.

"Nonsense," he said abruptly. "You like people. You like admiration.
Your real grudge against Hirst is that he doesn't admire you."

She made no answer for some time. Then she said:

"That's probably true. Of course I like people--I like almost every one
I've ever met."

She turned her back on the sea and regarded Hewet with friendly if
critical eyes. He was good-looking in the sense that he had always had
a sufficiency of beef to eat and fresh air to breathe. His head was big;
the eyes were also large; though generally vague they could be forcible;
and the lips were sensitive. One might account him a man of considerable
passion and fitful energy, likely to be at the mercy of moods which had
little relation to facts; at once tolerant and fastidious. The breadth
of his forehead showed capacity for thought. The interest with which
Rachel looked at him was heard in her voice.

"What novels do you write?" she asked.

"I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; "the things people
don't say. But the difficulty is immense." He sighed. "However, you
don't care," he continued. He looked at her almost severely. "Nobody
cares. All you read a novel for is to see what sort of person the writer
is, and, if you know him, which of his friends he's put in. As for the
novel itself, the whole conception, the way one's seen the thing,
felt about it, make it stand in relatio