She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. Good riddance. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. “A confusion of motives—that’s what I am!. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop.
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