"Oh, she's honest enough in that way," said Barbara.
"And he couldn't see it. He's so intent on his own beautiful Postlethwaite nose, he can't see anything that goes on under it…. Still, honest or not honest, she's a beast, Barbara. When they'd been such pals and he'd helped her, to have gone and rounded on the poor thing like that. She might just as well have pulled his Postlethwaite nose. It couldn't have hurt more."
"Oh, I think he'll get over it."
"I mean it couldn't have hurt me more."
"She is a beast," said Barbara. "I bet you anything you like it's her fault. She drove him to it."
"No, Barbara, it was my fault. I drove him. I'm always laughing at him, and he can't bear being laughed at. It makes him feel all stuffy and middle-aged. He only goes in for passion because it makes him feel young."
"It isn't really passion," said Barbara.
"No, you wise thing, it isn't. If it was I could forgive him. I could forgive it if he really felt young. It's this ghastly affectation I can't stand…. But it's my fault, Barbara, my fault. I should have kept him young…."
They sat silent, Barbara at Fanny's feet. Presently Fanny drew the girl's head down into her lap.
"You'll never be old, Barbara," she said. "And Ralph won't."