“Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. ’ For a moment he looked daunted. She did not wince. He walked unsteadily towards the door. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done.
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