He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. He nodded silently, too full for words. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. “Where am I?” he muttered. Not all of us, but some of us.
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