A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. 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. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you.
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