He refused to believe that Anna was not ‘Alcide. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. 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. It would make the young wife unhappy. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. My goodness gracious. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard.
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