It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. The major himself told me that this secret passage started upstairs. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. ‘You wound me to the heart, Melusine. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside.
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