When forty-five of the sixty pounds had been spent and she had bought every conceivable thing that she required, purchasing from habit where things were cheapest, she had brought the remainder back to Traill. He held her face, crumpling it, in his hands. "What on earth sort of a child are you?" he asked. "How do you mean?" "Why--I give you a certain amount of money to spend on clothes and you bring me back fifteen pounds like the little girl coming back with change from the grocer's." "But I've got everything I want," she replied, laughing. "Have you got an opera cloak?" "No, I don't want that." "Have you got an umbrella?" She laughed again--head thrown back, like a child at its father's knee. "No, I have one of my own already." "Did you get a--get a--oh, I don't know--did you get boots for tramping through the country with--boots for show, boots for wear, boots for comfort? How many pair of boots _did_ you get?" "Two." "Well--go and get some more and an opera cloak--to-morrow evening, we're going to sit in the Comedie Francais and not understand a word that's said." Then they had gone abroad, and life--wonderful--had passed from day to day like a pageant before Sally's eyes. The dark moments came with less frequency. After a time, they passed away altogether. She saw no end to it; she saw no sin in it. What sin could there be? Janet's arguments had penetrated more deeply into her mind than she had ever imagined. When, on rare occasions, she was alone in the hotel where they happened to be staying--and it was then that doubt, while there was any, oppressed her--she hugged Janet's sayings to her mind, forced them to support her. "You're only a conventionalist, like everybody else--you're not a moralist." Now she was a moralist, or nothing. She had cut the last link with convention and, at a moment such as that, the realization that there was no returning, no getting back, obsessed her with a shuddering fear. She did not understand that she was conventionalist still at heart; she did not divine that she was not the great woman, loving greatly--only the lesser woman, loving, it is true, with all the utmost of her personality, but loving less. There is no conventionality in greatness. Great natures make laws for lesser natures to obey; and, far though she had gone from the broad path where the little people huddle on their way, the blood of the little people was in her veins and conventionality still held its claim upon her. She liked to think that she was married. It was beyond the strength of her mind to look upon herself as the mistress of the man she loved.