A queer thrill went down her spine. For the first time in her life she was conscious of the presence of passion in another person. It was quite a novel experience, yet it called to mind that scene in the Duke Street Methodist Schoolroom when she and Freddie McKellar had come to blows.... A flash of realization swept over her. He was in love with her. He was _really_ in love with her. She had so often wondered and thought and speculated, and now she knew. His voice had become transfigured, so to speak, out of passion for her. What a pity he could not see her hair! She did not care for him one little bit. She knew that now. She had not been quite certain before, but now, in the very moment of realizing his love of her, she thought: “How funny, I believe I really dislike him.... I don’t even want to flirt with him again.” Yet she was immensely gratified that he had paid her the terrific compliment of falling in love with her. A sort of instinct warned her that she should deflect the conversation into other channels. She was immensely interested in this curious phenomenon, yet she feared anti-climax. He might try to kiss her and grope round in the dark searching for her. That would be anti-climax. And also (this came as a sudden shaft of realization) she did not want him to kiss her. Many a time of late she had thought: “What shall I do if he kisses me?” She had resigned herself to the possibility that one day he might kiss her. She had been annoyed at his dalliance. “I wish to goodness he’d do it, if he’s going to,” had been her frequent thought, and she had provoked him subtly, cunningly, deliberately.... Now it came to her as an unwelcome possibility. She did not in the least desire him to kiss her. She knew she would actively dislike it if he did. “Getting chilly,” she remarked nonchalantly, and she knew how such an observation would grate upon him. She was fascinated by this new miraculous power of hers to help or to hurt or to torture. Every word she said was full of meaning to him: talking to him was infinitely more subtle than ordinary conversation. It was this subtlety that partly fascinated her. For instance, when she said, “Getting chilly,” she meant, “We’ll change the subject. I know what you’re driving at, and I don’t like it. It doesn’t please me a bit.” And what was more, she knew that he would interpret it like that, and that he would feel all those feelings which the expansion of her remark would have aroused. “I’ll shut the window,” he said, and did so. It was so subtle, this business, that his remarks, too, could be interpreted. For instance, his words, “I’ll shut the window,” meant really, “Is that so? Well, I guessed as much. You’re utterly heartless. I shall have to resign myself to it, anyway. So, as you suggest, we’ll change the subject.” The taxi turned into the Bockley High Street.