Twenty-one, twenty-two. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. “I wonder if I’ve been properly brought up. I'll keep it for your sake. The key is in my trousers. I had consecrated my life to His Work; and I took the primrose path. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. “Thank goodness!” said that retreating aspect, “that’s said and over. Until the age of five she adored him.
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