Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. Every home is a little recess, a niche, out of the world of business and competition, in which women and the future shelter. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls.
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