Then it is true Winny almost despaired of this particular lover. She made one more frantic effort when she met him next day at lunch, and said, ‘You must talk to your neighbour more. People will notice,’ but this only had the effect of making him talk to his neighbour, which was not what she meant. She decided to give another lover a chance, and selected Herbert Ashton, a somewhat older man, who no doubt would understand her better. Several encouraging circumstances happened here, for her husband more than once remarked on the frequency with which he came to the house, and she thought one day that Lady Buckhampton cut her in the Park. This joy, it is true, was of short duration, for Lady Buckhampton asked her to spend the week-end with them next day, and she was forced to conclude that the cut had not been an intentional one. But it stimulated her to imagine a very touching scene in which Herbert, when they were alone together in the boudoir, was to say, ‘This is killing me,’ and fold her in his arms. For one moment she would yield to his fervent embrace, the next she would pluck herself from him and say, ‘Herbert, I am a married woman: we met too late!’ On which he would answer, ‘Forgive me, my dearest: I behaved like a cad.’ And then the most dreadful thing of all happened, for part, at any rate, of her imaginings came true. She was with Herbert shortly afterwards in her boudoir, and in ordinary decent response to a quantity of little sighs and glances and glances away and affinity-gabble on her part, he had given her a good sound proper kiss. But it was real; it was as different as possible from all the tawdry tinsel sentimentalities which she had for years indulged in, and it simply terrified her. She gave one little squeal, and instead of yielding for a moment to his fervent embrace, and saying, ‘Herbert, I am a married woman, etc.,’ cried, ‘Oh, Mr. Ashton!’ which was very bald. He looked at her completely puzzled. He felt certain she meant him to kiss her, and had done so. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind.’ A dreadful silence overcharged with pathos followed. Then recovering herself a little, she remembered her part. ‘You must go now,’ she said faintly, with a timid glance that was meant to convey the struggle she was going through. But unfortunately he only said ‘Right oh,’ and went. Since that day she has always retreated in time to prevent anything real occurring. But she cannot succeed in getting talked about in connection with anybody. The instinct of London generally, often at fault, is here perfectly correct. She can’t be compromised--no one will believe anything against a woman so mild. And all the time, in the clutch of her sentimental temperament, she sees herself the heroine of great romances. Lately she has been reading Dante (in a translation) and feels that England lacks someone like the mighty Florentine poet, for his Beatrice is waiting for him....