The next day was long in coming, yet she would have urged the night to stay. It was glorious to be courted, but she was half ashamed. If a man had picked her up without question and borne her away, she would have struggled fiercely, but she would have been without this strange shrinking of the mind. She was uncertain of her position: this wordless gift of flowers affected her like a lurking enemy. Moreover, though of all things she loved power, and though people sometimes seemed to her like pawns she could move at will, she suddenly felt herself unfitted to receive such gentle homage. It made her feel large and clumsy: remembering Morton's quiet voice, her own sounded too loud and rough, and she was aware again of his fastidious mind. Hers was not fastidious: she liked the truth, whatever the garb it wore, and for knowledge of life she had a thirst ready for the bitterest dregs. Had he known that, would he have sent those flowers? And had he sent the flowers? Should she thank him or be silent? To thank him would surely be to assume too much, yet she wished to thank him, for she loved the flowers. She could see them gleaming faintly as they stood on the table by her bed, and their scent stole towards her. She put out a hand and touched them. They were like friends. But she would be silent: she had no choice, and it would be sweeter so: unnamed, they would lie the closer in her heart. These were the thoughts that kept her waking through the night, so that she arose pale and heavy-eyed with all her quickness gone but for the restlessness of her hands. Twice during that morning she met Morton in the hall, gave him a smile and half a smile, and passed on. At lunch they faced each other, but Theresa's eyes skimmed over his, and she would not talk. Shyness was like a weight on her head, and she could not shake it off. Once more she was ashamed; she, the independent, the undaunted, to be sitting there like a bashful child! And oh, did she look as foolish as she felt? She hated the flowers that bound her: they had stolen her freedom. For the first time in her unbridled life she felt the curb, and she would have bitten the hand that forced it on her; yet, looking on Morton as the stern master, she lost the shame she had in seeing him as the adorer. She could kick and bite and struggle against hard measures, but against softer ones she had no weapon, only the pain of seeing herself unwillingly subdued. What were these people talking about? Their words flowed past her like a river, until Simon Smith addressed her. "You'd better go home directly after lunch, Miss Webb. Make up for all that extra work. Jack has to go out this afternoon, so there'll be nothing for you to do." Slowly she turned that weighted head, and the effect was dignified, reproachful. "My work does not depend on Mr. Neville," she said. "Except for the few letters he dictates every morning our work is quite distinct. There's no reason why I should go early."