Horror upon horror! To think of Gifford Road, of the Victoria Theatre, without the conviction that these were but a means to something infinitely higher! Her ultimate triumph provided the only terms on which life amongst these things was worth living! To think of herself as a mere unit in the society that lived in Kitchener Road, Bockley, in Gifford Road, Upton Rising! To deny herself the privilege of thinking what a good joke it was that she should have been born in Kitchener Road! To realize suddenly that it was no joke at all, but an ordinary, not inappropriate circumstance in which she had no right to discover any irony at all. To regard herself as she knew Mrs. Carbass regarded her, viz. as “the little girl wot plys the pienner at the theayter.” That was where her ruthless self-mutilation overreached itself. She knew she was not as Mrs. Carbass regarded her. Even if she were ordinary, she was not as ordinary as that. With feverish joy she clutched at this undeniable admission.... Slowly her spirits rose out of utter dejection. Cautiously at first, then with extravagant recklessness, she flung together the wreckage that had fallen. At the end of five minutes a phantom thought flashed by her--a swift, entrancing, wayward, delicious, undisciplined, seductive idea. It was like a breath of heaven upon her darkened soul. It whispered: “Supposing Razounov is wrong? ... After all, why the dickens should he be right? ...” § 3 One effect the sudden (but only temporary) shattering of her ambitions had upon her. It redoubled afterwards her efforts to achieve them. She increased the number of hours devoted to practice. She even made some attempt to get through an elementary book on harmony and counterpoint. And strangely enough, of all the composers whose works she attempted none nerved her to such a fever of determination as Chopin. For she had been told she oughtn’t to play Chopin.... On the Wednesday following a card reached her, addressed to the Victoria Theatre. It simply said: Come at two o’clock on Saturday. R. VERREKER. The writing was sharply angular, rivalling the phrasing in curtness. Nevertheless, Catherine had expected curtness. Of course she was not going to go. She had long ago decided that. As if to symbolize her contempt, she tore up the card and threw it into the gutter as she left the theatre. After all, what was the use of keeping it, since she was not going to go? All through the remainder of the week she kept fortifying her determination not to go. And yet dimly, in some strange intuitive fashion, at the back of her mind she felt that it was quite possible she _would_ go. I won’t go, she told herself one moment. Bet you you _do_ go, after all.... She was surprised, almost fascinated by this charming waywardness of hers. Anyway, she decided, it’s quite a simple matter to settle: I won’t go. I wonder, she said to herself, smiling.