The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. She is English! I am sure of that. Let her see if she could manage this one, perhaps turn all to suit herself? ‘What do you think to do with me now?’ The captain lowered the pistol. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world.
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