utally, "that you find,
after all, that you are a cold, narrow, cowardly, provincial woman,
stunted by your life, so that you are incapable of feeling a generous
heat?"

As she remained silent, he was stung by the expression on her face which
he did not understand. He went on vindictively snatching up to drive
home his thrust the sharpest and cruelest weapon he could conceive,
"_Perhaps you find you are too old?_"

At this she looked away from him for an instant, up to the lower
branches of the oak under which they stood. She seemed to reflect, and
when she brought her eyes back to his, she answered, "Yes, I think that
is it. I find I am too old."

He was for years to ponder on the strangeness of the accent with which
she said this, without regret, with that damnable gentleness as though
to hide from him a truth he might find hard to bear, or be incapable of
understanding.

How could any woman say "I find I am too old" with that unregretting
accent? Was it not the worst of calamities for all women to grow old?
What was there left for a woman when she grew old?

But how preposterous, her saying that, she who stood there in the
absolute perfection of her bloom!

He found that he did not know what to say next. That tolerant
acquiescence of hers in what he had meant to sting intolerably . . . it
was as though he had put all his force into a blow that would stun, and
somehow missing his aim, encountering no resistance, was toppling
forward with the impetus of his own effort. He recovered himself and
looked at her, choking, "You don't mean . . ." he began challenging her
incredulously, and could go no further.

For she nodded, her eyes on his with that singular expression in them
which he did not understand, and which he intensely resented.

He was so angry that for a moment he could not speak. He was aware of
nothing but anger. "It's impotence and weakness on your part, that's all
it is!" he cast out at her, hating her savagely as he spoke, "no matter
what fine words you've decided to call it to cloak your own feebleness.
It's the littleness of the vital spark in you. Or it's cowardly inertia,
turning from the real fulfilment that calls for you, back to chips and
straw because you are used to them. It's being a small, poor, weak,
cowed creature, traditional-minded, instead of the splendid, brave,
living woman I thought I loved. I am _glad_ to leave you behind, to have
no more of you in my life. I have no use for th