“What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in. No, never mind about thanking me. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her.
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