It came to her at queer times, in queer ways. After that horrible evening
at the Dining Club when the secretary woman put her as far as possible
from Richard, next to the little Jew financier who smelt of wine.
She couldn't even hear what Richard was saying; the little wine-lapping
Jew went on talking about Women's Suffrage and his collection of
Fragonards and his wife's portrait by Sargent. His tongue slid between
one overhanging and one dropping jaw, in and out like a shuttle.
She tried not to hate him, not to shrink back from his puffing, wine-sour
breath, to be kind to him and listen and smile and remember that his real
secret self was God, and was holy; not to attend to Richard's voice
breaking the beat of her heart.
She had gone away before Richard could get up and come to her. She wanted
to be back in her house by herself. She had pushed open the French
windows of the study to breathe the air of the garden and see the tall
sycamore growing deep into the thick blue night. Half the room, reflected
on the long pane, was thrown out into the garden. She saw it thinning
away, going off from the garden into another space, existing there with
an unearthly reality of its own. She had sat down at last, too tired to
go upstairs, and had found herself crying, incredibly crying; all the
misery, all the fear, all the boredom of her life gathered together and
discharging now.
"If I could get out of it all"--Her crying stopped with a start as if
somebody had come in and put a hand on her shoulder. Everything went
still. She had a sense of happiness and peace suddenly there with her in
the room. Not so much her own as the happiness and peace of an immense,
invisible, intangible being of whose life she was thus aware. She knew,
somehow through It, that there was no need to get away; she was out of it
all now, this minute. There was always a point where she could get out of
it and into this enduring happiness and peace.