She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn.
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