She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. Just then—I was nervous. ” Sebastian replied merrily, his eyes fixed on the road. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. “Of course!” he said. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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