man beings had not been successful. His love-affair—his marriage—both had been failures. There must be a lack of comprehension in him, of himself, of people, of life. His matter-of-fact bitterness, the aridity of his feeling about the world, showed that. It did not show lack of feeling—but disappointment, frustration. An emotion of pity and of tenderness for him stirred in her, and regret for what she felt had been her own egotistic attitude toward him. She had not really thought of him at all, but only of the pleasure he gave her. Now she began to care how she appeared to him, to care for his feeling about her, to wonder how far it was genuine, to desire that it should not be any commonplace sense of adventure that attracted him. She felt suddenly insecure, and both proud and humble—conscious of the faults she had shown him, no longer indifferent to his opinion of them, but not able to endure the thought that he should take her at anything but her best. … But what was her best, after all? Why should anyone seriously like her? She sat down on a bench by the roadside, and bowed her head in real humility. It was still early evening, and groups of people from the hotels passed by before her. Down the one street, in a glare of electric light, the band was playing sentimental waltzes. She felt suddenly very much alone, very small. "An egotist—that's what I am," she was saying to herself.
