MISS HEYDINGER'S THOUGHTS
oppressive abundance. The autotypes that hung about the room were eloquent of æsthetic ambitions and of a certain impermeability to implicit meanings. There was the Mirror of Venus by Burne-Jones, Rossetti's Annunciation, Lippi's Annunciation, and the Love and Life and Love and Death of Watts. And among other photographs was one of last year's Debating Society Committee, Lewisham smiling a little weakly near the centre, and Miss Heydinger out of focus in the right wing. And Miss Heydinger sat with her back to all these things in her black horsehair arm-chair, staring into the fire, her eyes hot and her chin on her hand.
"I might have guessed—before," she said. "Ever since that séance. It has been different. . ."
She smiled bitterly. "Some shop girl. . ."
She mused. "They are all alike, I suppose. They come back—a little damaged, as the woman says in 'Lady Windermere's Fan.' Perhaps he will. I wonder. . .
"Why should he be so deceitful? Why should he act to me?. . .
"Pretty, pretty, pretty—that is our business. What man hesitates in the choice? He goes his own way, thinks his own thoughts, does his own work. . . .
"His dissection is getting behind—one can see he takes scarcely any notes. . . ."
For a long time she was silent. Her face became more intent. She began to bite her thumb, at first slowly, then faster. She broke out at last into words again.
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