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was shifting his grip from her on to Mrs Bolton. He did not
know it. Like many insane people, his insanity might be
measured by the things he was NOT aware of the great des-
ert tracts in his consciousness.
Mrs Bolton was admirable in many ways. But she had
that queer sort of bossiness, endless assertion of her own
will, which is one of the signs of insanity in modern wom-
an. She THOUGHT she was utterly subservient and living
for others. Clifford fascinated her because he always, or so
of ten, frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. He had a
finer, subtler will of self-assertion than herself. This was his
charm for her.
Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.
’It’s a lovely day, today!’ Mrs Bolton would say in her ca-
ressive, persuasive voice. ‘I should think you’d enjoy a little
run in your chair today, the sun’s just lovely.’
’Yes? Will you give me that book—there, that yellow one.
And I think I’ll have those hyacinths taken out.’
’Why they’re so beautiful!’ She pronounced it with the ‘y’
sound: be-yutiful! ‘And the scent is simply gorgeous.’
’The scent is what I object to,’ he said. ‘It’s a little fune-
real.’
’Do you think so!’ she exclaimed in surprise, just a little
offended, but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out
of the room, impressed by his higher fastidiousness.
’Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it
yourself?’ Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet
managing voice.
’I don’t know. Do you mind waiting a while. I’ll ring

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