“Well?” she enquired.
“It seems to me bad—that’s all,” Rachel replied.
“Quite likely,” said Helen.
At any other time Rachel would probably have been silenced by her Aunt’s candour; but this afternoon she was not in the mood to be silenced by any one. A quarrel would be welcome.
“You’re only half alive,” she continued.
“Is that because I didn’t accept Mr. Flushing’s invitation?” Helen asked, “or do you always think that?”
At the moment it appeared to Rachel that she had always seen the same faults in Helen, from the very first night on board the Euphrosyne, in spite of her beauty, in spite of her magnanimity and their love.
“Oh, it’s only what’s the matter with every one!” she exclaimed. “No one feels—no one does anything but hurt. I tell you, Helen, the world’s bad. It’s an agony, living, wanting—”
Here she tore a handful of leaves from a bush and crushed them to control herself.
“The lives of these people,” she tried to explain, “the aimlessness, the way they live. One goes from one to another, and it’s all the same. One never gets what one wants out of any of them.”