"Mrs Trefusis does not take fancies quickly."
"It is not that," said Janet. "There's two ways of not being good enough. Till now I have only thought of one way, of not being good enough in myself, like such things as temper. I'm not often angry, but if I am I stay angry. I don't alter. I was once angry with Fred for a year. I've thought a great deal about that since I've cared for George. And sometimes I fancy I'm rather slow. I daresay you haven't noticed it, but Mrs Smith often remarks upon it. She always has something to say on any subject, just like you have; but somehow I haven't."
"I don't know Mrs Smith."
"I wish you did. She's wonderful. She says she learnt it when she went out so much in the West End before her marriage."
"Indeed!"
"But since I've been here I see there's another way I'm not good enough, which sets Mrs Trefusis against me. I don't think she would mind if I told lies and had a bad temper, and couldn't talk like Mrs Smith, if I was good enough in her way—I mean if I was high-born like you."
The conversation seemed to contain as many pins as a well-stocked pincushion. The expression "high-born" certainly had a sharp point, but Anne made no sign as it was driven in. She considered a moment, and then said, as if she had decided to risk something: "You are right. Mrs Trefusis would have been pleased if you had been my sister. You perhaps think that very worldly. I think it is very natural."
"I wish I were your sister," said Janet, who might be reckoned on for remaining half a field behind.
Anne sighed, and leaned back in her chair.
"If I were your sister," continued Janet, wholly engrossed in getting her slow barge heavily under way, "you would have told me a number of little things which—I don't seem to know."