The mere fact that he was there in the train alongside her, helping her, sitting opposite to her in the dining-car, presently sleeping on a seat within a yard of her, made her heart sing until she was afraid their fellow passengers would hear it. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated. I care not. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. Jonathan, however, paid no sort of attention to this demonstration of hatred.
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