CHAPTER XVII
"You see, Hilda," said Connie after lunch, when they were nearing London, "you have never known either real tenderness or real sensuality: and if you do know them, with the same person, it makes a great difference."
"For mercy's sake don't brag about your experiences!" said Hilda. "I've never met the man yet who was capable of intimacy with a woman, giving himself up to her. That was what I wanted. I'm not keen on their self-satisfied tenderness, and their sensuality. I'm not content to be any man's little petsywetsy, nor his chair à plaisir either. I wanted a complete intimacy, and I didn't get it. That's enough for me."
Connie pondered this. Complete intimacy! She supposed that meant revealing everything concerning yourself to the other person, and his revealing everything concerning himself. But that was a bore. And all that weary self-consciousness between a man and a woman! a disease!
"I think you're too conscious of yourself all the time, with everybody," she said to her sister.
"I hope at least I haven't a slave nature," said Hilda.
"But perhaps you have! Perhaps you are a slave to your own idea of yourself."
Hilda drove in silence from some time after this piece of unheard-of insolence from that chit Connie.
"At least "m not a slave to somebody else's idea of me: and the somebody else a servant of my husband's," she retorted at last, in crude anger.
"You see, it's not so," said Connie calmly.
She had always let herself be dominated by her elder sister.
