At that a new element poured into her excitement, an element of wild disgust and terror. “Lucy, are you feeling all right?” He asked concernedly. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. She obeyed, extending her arm. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five.
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