And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. That’s how it takes me. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. Here he was almost stunned by the deafening clamour resounding on all sides.
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