’ ‘And if she can’t?’ asked Lucy. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. A woman cannot change her soul.
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