Mrs. Ogilvie stopped at Hatchards' and fluttered in her usual vague way to the bookshop.
"I want some serious books," she said. "Something about Life or Philosophy or anything of that kind."
The young man said he understood exactly what she meant, and produced a new book by Hichens.
"But that's a novel! I want a real philosophical work."
"Maxims of Love, by Stendhal," suggested the young man.
"What a pretty book! No—I mean something really dull. Have you anything by Schopenhauer? or Dr. Reich?"
The young man said that he thought anything of that kind could be got, and meanwhile suggested Benson.
"No, that's too frivolous," said Vera seriously. She then bought casually Mr. Punch on the Continong, and left orders for books by Plato, Herbert Spencer, and various other thoughtful writers, to be sent to her without loss of time.
She then drove to the dressmaker's. Whenever she had fallen freshly in love she got new dresses and new books. To-day she ordered a rather ugly but very expensive new evening dress, rather weakly, at the last moment, buying a tea-gown that she did not want.
Then she began to think she wanted to see Felicity, and yet she liked to feel she had a sort of secret to herself for a little while. It really had been a declaration, and Felicity had a way of inquiring into these things and examining them until they were entirely analysed away.