“I think that it is only an idea. ” The tall young man dropped his eye-glass and smiled. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. ‘Speak, then. Don’t leave me in this beastly thing.
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