‘Eh bien, you are not like Leonardo. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. The spinsters had purchased one grass-linen tablecloth; the girl and the young man had purchased nothing. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. Heaven knows why! They don’t marry most of us off now until high up in the twenties.
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