She went to her own table and sat down. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. “Buon Primomaggio. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. ’ ‘And if she can’t?’ asked Lucy. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity.
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