“It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. I packed so hurriedly that it will take me a long time to find my things. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. . Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. And we are not traders looking at equivalents.
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