Nicholas Aubray, so much her senior, "led to" something. In some ways, Lily felt that he understood her, and like all young and over-sensitive souls, she craved to be understood.
Nicholas had understood about her liking childish things—he had even appeared to share her tastes. She knew, instinctively, that they had, mentally, much in common.
It was impossible to imagine everyday life lived with Colin Eastwood; but with Nicholas Aubray she could picture to herself a life of companionship, of books and theatres, and friends shared by them both.
"I might have a baby," Lily reflected, after deciding that she would like to live in London.
It pleased her to reflect how fond Nicholas was of children, and it was quite easy to picture him with the blue-eyed baby of Lily's own most private fancies.
Whereas the thought of Colin Eastwood as a husband and father seemed absurd—almost indecent. He belonged to a dream world.
The little things that had seemed to matter so much belonged to the dream world too.
It had certainly never seemed important whether or no Nicholas sat next to her at tea-time, nor had she any particular recollection of ever distinguishing his footfall from that of the Marchese della Torre, or her father's or Cousin Charlie Hardinge's.
The new and mysterious instincts, conjured momentarily into being during a midsummer holiday, had nothing to do with Real Life.
For a moment, Lily visualized strange possibilities, of that dream world inextricably interwoven with Real Life, in such fashion as could never be realized through the medium either of Colin's personality or of Nicholas Aubray's.