"A woman wants making. Only a man can make a woman. She has to be formed. She can’t do it herself. A young man may be able to do it, but he’s like a teacher who swots up the night before what he has to teach the next day. And he’s a fearful bungler, besides being cruel--unconsciously. Whereas an older man, a much older man--he knows! It’s a unique chance for both of them. She has so much to give, and she has so much to learn. It’s a fair bargain. Perhaps the woman has a little the best of it. Because after all she loses nothing that it isn’t her business to lose--and the man may--well, he may kill himself. And the chance for a clever girl to be ’made’ without any clumsiness! What a chance! ... Well, I won’t say _which_ of ’em has the best of it.... I’m speaking impartially. If you live to be as old as Ninon de l’Enclos you’ll never meet a more honest man than I am." Lilian felt intoxicated, but not with the Burgundy nor with the crême de menthe. Rather with sudden fresh air. She thought: "Be careful! Be careful! You aren’t yourself. Something queer’s come over you." She was not happy. She was alarmed. Once before she had been alarmed by herself, but this time she was really alarmed. She was glad that she had always despised boys of her own age. What did Mr. Grig mean by saying that a man might kill himself? She didn’t know.... Yes, she knew.... She saw clearly that a woman must be formed by a man, and that until she was formed she would not be worthy of herself. She longed ardently to be formed. As she stood she was futile. She could exercise no initiative, make use of no opportunities; and her best wisdom was to remain negative--in order to avoid mistakes. Something that looked like a woman but wasn’t one. She had the intelligence to realize how insipid she was. Ambition surged through her anew and with fresh power. Mr. Grig drove her home, and the taxi was a little dark vibrating room in which they were alone together, and safe from all scrutiny. She was painfully constrained. "Yes," said Mr. Grig, after an interminable silence. "My sister was quite right." "What about?" Lilian asked in a child’s voice. "I’m in love. What are you going to do about it?" He turned his head impulsively towards her, gazed at her in the dim twilight of the taxi, and then kissed her. In spite of herself she yearned to give, and the yearning thrilled her. "Please! Please!" she murmured in modest, gentle, passive protest. Another pause. "I shall write to you to-morrow," he said. "In the meantime, believe me, you’re entirely marvellous." He was looking straight in front of him at the driver’s shaggy shoulders. That was all that occurred, except the handshake. When she let herself into the house the servant was just going upstairs to bed, after her usual sixteen-hour day. "So you’re back, miss." "No!" thought Lilian. "It’s somebody else that’s come back. The girl you mean will never come back."