So she would still find herself arguing in St.James's Park,still making out that she had been right-and she had too-not to marry him.For in marriage a little licence,a little independence there must be between people living together day in day out in the same house;which Richard gave her,and she him.(Where was he this morning for instance?Some committee,she never asked what.But with Peter everything had to be shared;everything gone into.And it was intolerable,and when it came to that scene in the little garden by the fountain,she had to break with him or they would have been destroyed,both of them ruined,she was convinced;though she had borne about with her for years like an arrow sticking in her heart the grief,the anguish;and then the horror of the moment when some one told her at a concert that he had married a woman met on the boat going to India!Never should she forget all that!Cold, heartless,a prude,he called her.Never could she understand how he cared. But those Indian women did presumably-silly,pretty,flimsy nincompoops. And she wasted her pity.For he was quite happy,he assured her-perfectly happy,though he had never done a thing that they talked of;his whole life had been a failure.It made her angry still. She had reached the Park gates.She stood for a moment,looking at the omnibuses in Piccadilly. She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this or were that.She felt very young;at the same time unspeakably aged.She sliced like a knife through everything;at the same time was outside,looking on.She had a perpetual sense,as she watched the taxi cabs,of being out, out,far out to sea and alone;she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.Not that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary.How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fraulein Daniels gave them she could not think.She knew nothing;no language,no history;she scarcely read a book now,except memoirs in bed;and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing;all this;the cabs passing;and she would not say of Peter,she would not say of herself, I am this,I am that. Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct,she thought,walking on.If you put her in a room with some one,up went her back like a cat's; or she purred.Devonshire House,Bath House,the house with the china cockatoo,she had seen them all lit up once;and remembered Sylvia,Fred, Sally Seton-such hosts of people;and dancing all night;and the wagons plodding past to market;and driving home across the Park.She remembered once throwing a shilling into the Serpentine.But every one remembered; what she loved was this,here,now,in front of her;the fat lady in the cab.Did it matter then,she asked herself,walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely;all this must4 So she would still find herself arguing in St. James's Park, still making out that she had been right—and she had too—not to marry him. For in marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in day out in the same house; which Richard gave her, and she him. (Where was he this morning for instance? Some committee, she never asked what.) But with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into. And it was intolerable, and when it came to that scene in the little garden by the fountain, she had to break with him or they would have been destroyed, both of them ruined, she was convinced; though she had borne about with her for years like an arrow sticking in her heart the grief, the anguish; and then the horror of the moment when some one told her at a concert that he had married a woman met on the boat going to India! Never should she forget all that! Cold, heartless, a prude, he called her. Never could she understand how he cared. But those Indian women did presumably—silly, pretty, flimsy nincompoops. And she wasted her pity. For he was quite happy, he assured her—perfectly happy, though he had never done a thing that they talked of; his whole life had been a failure. It made her angry still. She had reached the Park gates. She stood for a moment, looking at the omnibuses in Piccadilly. She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fräulein Daniels gave them she could not think. She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that. Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with some one, up went her back like a cat's; or she purred. Devonshire House, Bath House, the house with the china cockatoo, she had seen them all lit up once; and remembered Sylvia, Fred, Sally Seton—such hosts of people; and dancing all night; and the wagons plodding past to market; and driving home across the Park. She remembered once throwing a shilling into the Serpentine. But every one remembered; what she loved was this, here, now, in front of her; the fat lady in the cab. Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must