that of the despicable drone in the busy hive. Darius, with his shoe-brushes and his rake, Galvin at her wash-tub, the tradesmen who came and went — these were the workers. All I was good for was to eat and buzz complacently over the advantages of celibacy. But, at a certain point in the history of the hive, the exasperated workers fall upon the drones and hustle them unceremoniously out of doors. Did I deserve a better fate?
Most of all, I was lonely; with such a loneliness as I cannot endeavour to describe. Struggle as I would against it, the remembrance forced itself upon me of the hours I had spent in Miss Berrith’s company, of her quick wit, of her breezy candour, of the cheerful love of life and the gentle womanly sympathy which I now saw only too clearly had illumined all her moods, and which I had so pitifully failed to understand. Little by little, a realization of what this mental attitude must signify forced itself upon my comprehension.
