“No, no,” she cried. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. You know—I worship you. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir.
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