"She hardly ever speaks to a man. I've seen her at gaieties, when she was younger. She was always rather stranded. Men left her alone. Something in her seems to repel them. I think she fully realised it. And she's a proud woman. There's tragedy in it."
"Does she repel you?"
"Not in that way. I dislike her. I think her dangerous. I'm intensely sorry for her. And I do understand something of the attraction she exercises, better than you can, though it has never affected me. You see—eccentricity—abnormality—does not affect women as it does men. And she's brilliantly clever."
"So is Alwynne—you wouldn't call her abnormal?"
"Alwynne? Never! She's as sound and sweet as an apple. But—and it means a good deal at her age—she's in abnormal hands. Clare Hartill is abnormal, spiritually perverse—and she's fastened on the child. They adore each other. It's terribly bad for Alwynne. As it is, it will take her months to shake off Clare's influence, even with you to help her. That is, if you succeed in detaching her. I'm useless, of course. Loving—just loving—is no good. You can only influence if you are strong enough to wound. I merely irritate. I'm weak. But you could do as you like, I believe. Take her away from that selfish woman, Roger! It's blighting her."
"You think," he said, "that she would be content with me—with marriage as a career? Of course, Miss Hartill's right about her talents."
"Alwynne? I don't think—I know. All her gifts are so much surface show; she's a very simple child underneath. Content? Can't you see her, Roger—with children? Her own babies?"
Roger beamed.
"It's rather a jolly prospect. Well, I must take my chance."
"Of course, you must wait; it's too soon yet. Even later, if Clare really wants her—wants her enough to suppress her own perverse impulses—I'm afraid you've little chance. But it's possible that she will not want her as much as that."