V
IT was after all an artificial balance, she perceived suddenly—the whole relation had been artificial. For three weeks now she had seen Crayven every day—they had been alone together every day for some hours. It had been tacitly assumed that both wanted this solitude à deux. It had been recognised that Crayven had come and was staying on Teresa's account, and she had testified with the greatest frankness that his presence gave her pleasure. She had not asked herself exactly what sort of pleasure; it had seemed simple and innocent enough.
It was impossible for her to live in isolation. She must have some intimate social relation, something that carried on from day to day, with a dramatic interest, with an element of excitement. Instinctively she desired to have things happen; calm was not natural to her and monotony irritated her. The same instinct that had led her to make scenes for Basil when the emotional tone of their relation showed signs of lowering ever so slightly toward the commonplace, was working in her now. And coquetry was working in her, and was stirred by Crayven's change of tone. Yet she was in a way angry with
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