She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. In a momentary fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the easel. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. The less she lived, in fact, the better. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. It’s not like we’re getting married. "Oh! no—no—no," cried Winifred, "I cannot believe it. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination.
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