” “I thought I was old enough,” she gasped, between laughter and crying. He looked at her, hurt. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. ” She whispered to him. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman’s outlook. He understood. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round.
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