ther of the upper middle classes,
did not absorb the whole of her energies. She was young and strong, with
healthy limbs and a body and brain that called urgently for exercise.
. . .' (In short she began to give tea-parties.) . . . 'Coming in late
from this singular talk with old Bob Murphy in his smoky, book-lined
room, where the two men had each unloosened his soul to the other, with
the sound of the traffic humming in his ears, and the foggy London sky
slung tragically across his mind . . . he found women's hats dotted
about among his papers. Women's wraps and absurd little feminine shoes
and umbrellas were in the hall. . . . Then the bills began to come in.
. . . He tried to speak frankly to her. He found her lying on the great
polar-bear skin in their bedroom, half-undressed, for they were dining
with the Greens in Wilton Crescent, the ruddy firelight making the
diamonds wink and twinkle on her bare arms and in the delicious curve of
her breast--a vision of adorable femininity. He forgave her all.' (Well,
this goes from bad to worse, and finally about fifty pages later, Hugh
takes a week-end ticket to Swanage and 'has it out with himself on the
downs above Corfe.' . . . Here there's fifteen pages or so which we'll
skip. The conclusion is . . .) 'They were different. Perhaps, in the far
future, when generations of men had struggled and failed as he must now
struggle and fail, woman would be, indeed, what she now made a pretence
of being--the friend and companion--not the enemy and parasite of man.'

"The end of it is, you see, Hugh went back to his wife, poor fellow. It
was his duty, as a married man. Lord, Rachel," he concluded, "will it be
like that when we're married?"

Instead of answering him she asked,

"Why don't people write about the things they do feel?"

"Ah, that's the difficulty!" he sighed, tossing the book away.

"Well, then, what will it be like when we're married? What are the
things people do feel?"

She seemed doubtful.

"Sit on the floor and let me look at you," he commanded. Resting her
chin on his knee, she looked straight at him.

He examined her curiously.

"You're not beautiful," he began, "but I like your face. I like the
way your hair grows down in a point, and your eyes too--they never see
anything. Your mouth's too big, and your cheeks would be better if they
had more colour in them. But what I like about your face is that it
makes one wonder what the devil you're thinking abou