When Willoughby caught hold of her chilly little ringless hand, she made no movement of withdrawal. He looked down at her and laughed again. “What an odd little thing you are! I don’t believe you’ve ever been kissed, have you?” She was silent. “Has anybody ever made love to you, now?” “Yes,” she said defiantly and untruly. He laughed quite openly, and declared, “I don’t believe it!” Still laughing, he put his hand under her chin, tilting up her face, and kissed her. II Hal Willoughby’s careless parting kiss remained the only one that Adela was destined to receive. For ten years more she lived with her mother, and heard her say proudly to other mothers, coming with the news of Mollie’s engagement, or Dolly’s beautiful new baby: “Ah, I still keep my Adela, I’m glad to say. She’s almost too fastidious, I sometimes think. She’s never made herself cheap with anyone. And then there’s her writing, too.” Adela had slowly been making a name for herself, but her great success only came after her mother’s death. A long novel, at which she had been working for several years, made her reputation in the world of letters. She had inherited money from her mother, and her books brought her in more. Adela was able to indulge in artistic necessities. It became imperative that she should retire, whenever she wanted to write, to a Yorkshire moor with an atmosphere of ruggedness and strength, and very few trees. So many journalists, so many fellow-writers, such a number of the new-born coterie that “followed the Adela Alston method” had inquired so earnestly in what peculiar setting Adela found it necessary to enshrine her inspiration, that the need of the Yorkshire moor had suddenly sprung, full-grown, into being. She built a two-roomed cottage, engaged a caretaker, and wrote in a small summer-house, wearing knickerbockers and sandals, and smoking violently. This was in the summer. In the winter, inspiration was obliged to content itself with Hampstead, and Adela had to wear shoes and stockings and a skirt. At forty she had gained greatly in assurance, and knew herself for the leading spirit in a small group of intensely modern women writers, by whom she was devoutly worshipped. Adela became accustomed to being the person who was listened to, in the society of her fellows. They were not only interested in her work, but deeply, intensely interested in herself. “You know almost too much of human nature, Adela. It’s not decent.” Adela enjoyed being told that. “I’ve seen all sorts in my time,” she said musingly. It would no longer have pleased her to be thought younger than she was. On the contrary, she was apt to emphasise in herself the aspect of a full maturity. “That last study of yours is simply magnificent. Dear, I don’t wonder you’ve never chosen to marry. No man’s vanity could survive your insight.”