He stood aside and pointed the way, forcing his manner into rigid politeness, but his face white, and his eyes fixing hers. His whole nature rose against defeat, though, as he fell behind her, he felt so miserable that, boy as he was, his throat ached, and unshed tears stung his eyelids.
Constancy felt strange thrills.
She dashed into the midst of the others, as they came out, and breathlessly remarked on the beauty of the bridge they were crossing, “So picturesque,” she said.
“If the stream was clean,” said Guy.
“Well, you often call a dirty child picturesque; why not a dirty river, with a tree and a barn, or whatever it is? I think it’s beautiful.”
“Beauty that is marred,” said Guy.
“Then it has more human interest,” said Constancy. “It is another aspect of what I said about the summeriness of London.”
She dashed into the discussion, and talked brilliantly, rousing both Guy and Cuthbert Staunton to talk too, while Godfrey hung behind, angered more than ever. He was obliged occasionally to speak, and even to hand tea-cups and open doors for the ladies. Such is the power of civilisation. As she talked and smiled and managed, into her complex mind there flashed new ideas, and new knowledge. She had learned ever so much by that queer little interview. All kinds of new “mind stuff” had come into her head. She had conceived her part of the scene very badly—but certainly—it was an experience, and as they drove home through the rainy mist, the experience translated itself into all sorts of forms. Godfrey had held the door of the waggonette for her; had given her her wraps, had offered all politeness, but he had neither spoken to her, nor touched her hand.
“Yes,” she thought, as she laid her head on her pillow, “I can’t be sorry for any experience. It’s quite different from reading about it.”
Then suddenly, as she lay in the darkness, she not only knew, but felt; something new and strange did indeed sweep over her, an overwhelming might be. Her spirit fell before it, and she hid her face, and cried.