" The girl's blood ran warmly for a minute. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. ‘Alcide’ or no ‘Alcide,’ there is not a music hall manager in London or Paris who would not give you an engagement on your own merits. She felt sickeningly empty. When she finally did take her own lover, it was not with a member of the household staff. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish.
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