"I can believe it," he said. He returned her look with perfect
sincerity.
"Women one sees in the streets," she said.
"Prostitutes?"
"Men kissing one."
He nodded his head.
"You were never told?"
She shook her head.
"And then," she began and stopped. Here came in the great space of life
into which no one had ever penetrated. All that she had been saying
about her father and her aunts and walks in Richmond Park, and what they
did from hour to hour, was merely on the surface. Hewet was watching
her. Did he demand that she should describe that also? Why did he sit
so near and keep his eye on her? Why did they not have done with this
searching and agony? Why did they not kiss each other simply? She wished
to kiss him. But all the time she went on spinning out words.
"A girl is more lonely than a boy. No one cares in the least what she
does. Nothing's expected of her. Unless one's very pretty people don't
listen to what you say. . . . And that is what I like," she added
energetically, as if the memory were very happy. "I like walking in
Richmond Park and singing to myself and knowing it doesn't matter a damn
to anybody. I like seeing things go on--as we saw you that night when
you didn't see us--I love the freedom of it--it's like being the wind or
the sea." She turned with a curious fling of her hands and looked at the
sea.
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