“I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. They compromised at length on the science course at the Tredgold Women’s College—she had already matriculated into London University from school—she came of age, and she bickered with her aunt for latch-key privileges on the strength of that and her season ticket. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. Nothing at all. So I had to buy out his interest, and it pinched me dreadfully to do it. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. It’s artificially chance.
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