She went on hurriedly--I was going to write feverishly,--so quickly did
she rush into questions of method in arranging the chapters, her armour
was on again--she had become cautious, and was probably annoyed with
herself for ever having allowed herself to slip off her guard.
I knew that I could disconcert her, and probably obtain some interesting
admissions from her--and have a thrilling fencing match, but some
instinct warned me not to do so--I might win out for the time being, but
if she has a secret which she does not wish me to discover, she will
take care not again to put herself in a situation where this can happen.
I have the apprehension always hanging, like Damocles' sword, over my
head, of her relinquishing her post. Besides, why should I trouble her
for my own satisfaction?--However, I registered a vow then that I would
find out all I could from Maurice.
The inference of everything she says, does and unconsciously infers, is
that she is a cultivated lady, accustomed to talking with people of our
world--people who know England and its great houses well enough to have
made her familiar with the knowledge of where certain pieces of famous
furniture are.--The very phrasing of her sentences is the phrasing of
our Shibboleth, and not the phrasing of the professional classes.
And yet--she is meanly dressed--does housework--and for years must have
been trained in professional business methods. It is profoundly
interesting.