what you want from life, I reply that you don't know what you want. If you were becoming a woman—oh, Lucia, I am so much older than you really—you would be beginning to be conscious of the want—it sounds so dreadfully indelicate—of one of the men you say you don't like. You would think about—about children, babies, soft helpless things, not motor-cars."
Lucia leaned back her head.
"Maud, you're crying," she said; "don't cry over me. Besides, why are you crying?"
"I'm not," said Maud. "And if I was, I shouldn't tell you why."
"Why? We always tell each other everything."
If she were not crying, she was somewhat perilously near it. But at this, she ceased to deserve the soft imputation.
"I don't think we always do," she said. "We both of us have our private places, I expect."
"Perhaps you have from me," said Lucia. "But I haven't from you."
To the softer but sterner spirit this was wounding.
"I'm sorry," said Maud. "I really am. I won't have private places from you. I will let you into—the only one. Indeed, indeed, I would have before, Lucia, but I didn't know about it before."
Lucia looked at her in a sort of amazed distrust.
"Do you mean you are in love?" she asked. "With a stupid young man?"
Maud took up pools from Lucia's gold cataract of hair, half burying her face in it.
"Yes, I expect that is what you would call it," she said.
"And who is he?" asked Lucia. "We promised to tell each other."
Maud, still hidden, gave a long sigh, and her voice was muffled.
"I know we did," she said. "And I can't tell you, though I thought I could. When it comes to you, you will know, Lucia. It—it is too private, at first. No doubt I shall tell you before long."
"But why 'at first'?" asked the other.
"I can't say. I only feel that I am not used to the private room myself yet, and that I can't let anybody else in. I would if I could. At least, I would let you in, no one else."
"And all the time he is probably talking about you as an 'awful ripper,'" said Lucia contemptuously.
