Rachel had obviously never
thought or felt or seen anything, and she might be intelligent or
she might be just like all the rest. But Hewet's taunt rankled in his
mind--"you don't know how to get on with women," and he was determined
to profit by this opportunity. Her evening-clothes bestowed on her just
that degree of unreality and distinction which made it romantic to speak
to her, and stirred a desire to talk, which irritated him because he
did not know how to begin. He glanced at her, and she seemed to him
very remote and inexplicable, very young and chaste. He drew a sigh, and
began.
"About books now. What have you read? Just Shakespeare and the Bible?"
"I haven't read many classics," Rachel stated. She was slightly
annoyed by his jaunty and rather unnatural manner, while his masculine
acquirements induced her to take a very modest view of her own power.
"D'you mean to tell me you've reached the age of twenty-four without
reading Gibbon?" he demanded.
"Yes, I have," she answered.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, throwing out his hands. "You must begin
to-morrow. I shall send you my copy. What I want to know is--" he looked
at her critically. "You see, the problem is, can one really talk to you?
Have you got a mind, or are you like the rest of your sex? You seem to
me absurdly young compared with men of your age."
Rachel looked at him but said nothing.
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