‘Oh, I wanted to ask you,’ said Edith, soon after this. ‘Do you wish Albert to say anything about you—at the hospital?’
‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t.’
‘You won’t even write to say—?’
‘I shall do nothing.’
Since the parting from her husband, there had proceeded in Amy a noticeable maturing of intellect. Probably the one thing was a consequence of the other. During that last year in the flat her mind was held captive by material cares, and this arrest of her natural development doubtless had much to do with the appearance of acerbity in a character which had displayed so much sweetness, so much womanly grace. Moreover, it was arrest at a critical point. When she fell in love with Edwin Reardon her mind had still to undergo the culture of circumstances; though a woman in years she had seen nothing of life but a few phases of artificial society, and her education had not progressed beyond the final schoolgirl stage. Submitting herself to Reardon’s influence, she passed through what was a highly useful training of the intellect; but with the result that she became clearly conscious of the divergence between herself and her husband. In endeavouring to imbue her with his own literary tastes, Reardon instructed Amy as to the natural tendencies of her mind, which till then she had not clearly understood. When she ceased to read with the eyes of passion, most of the things which were Reardon’s supreme interests lost their value for her. A sound intelligence enabled her to think and feel in many directions, but the special line of her growth lay apart from that in which the novelist and classical scholar had directed her.
When she found herself alone and independent, her mind acted like a spring when pressure is removed. After a few weeks of desoeuvrement she obeyed the impulse to occupy herself with a kind of reading alien to Reardon’s sympathies. The solid periodicals attracted her, and especially those articles which dealt with themes of social science. Anything that savoured of newness and boldness in philosophic thought had a charm for her palate. She read a good deal of that kind of literature which may be defined as specialism popularised; writing which addresses itself to educated, but not strictly studious, persons, and which forms the reservoir of conversation for society above the sphere of turf and west-endism. Thus, for instance, though she could not undertake the volumes of Herbert Spencer, she was intelligently acquainted with the tenor of their contents; and though she had never opened one of Darwin’s books, her knowledge of his main theories and illustrations was respectable. She was becoming a typical woman of the new time, the woman who has developed concurrently with journalistic enterprise.
Not many days after that conversation with Edith Carter, she had occasion to visit Mudie’s, for the new number of some periodical which contained an appetising title. As it was a sunny and warm day she walked to New Oxford Street from the nearest Metropolitan station. Whilst waiting at the library counter, she heard a familiar voice in her proximity; it was that of Jasper Milvain, who stood talking with a middle-aged lady. As Amy turned to look at him his eye met hers; clearly he had been aware of her. The review she desired was handed to her; she moved aside, and turned over the pages. Then Milvain walked up.
He was armed cap-a-pie in the fashions of suave society; no Bohemianism of garb or person, for Jasper knew he could not afford that kind of economy. On her part, Amy was much better dressed than usual, a costume suited to her position of bereaved heiress.
‘What a time since we met!’ said Jasper, taking her delicately gloved hand and looking into her face with his most effective smile.
‘And why?’ asked Amy.
‘Indeed, I hardly know. I hope Mrs Yule is well?’
‘Quite, thank you.’
It seemed as if he would draw back to let her pass, and so make an end of the colloquy. But Amy, though she moved forward, added a remark:
‘I don’t see your name in any of this month’s magazines.’
‘I have nothing signed this month. A short review in The Current, that’s all.’
‘But I suppose you write as much as ever?’
‘Yes; but chiefly in weekly papers just now. You don’t see the Will-o’-the-Wisp?’
‘Oh yes. And I think I can generally recognise your hand.’
They issued from the library.
‘Which way are you going?’ Jasper inquired, with something more of the old freedom.
‘I walked from Gower Street station, and I think, as it’s so fine, I shall walk back again.’
He accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after a short silence, made inquiry concerning his sisters.
‘I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it better to let the acquaintance end there.’
‘I really didn’t think of it in that way at all,’ Jasper replied.’We naturally understood it so, when you even ceased to call, yourself.’
‘But don’t you feel that there would have been a good deal of awkwardness in my coming to Mrs Yule’s?’
‘Seeing that you looked at things from my husband’s point of view?’
‘Oh, that’s a mistake! I have only seen your husband once since he went to Islington.’
Amy gave him a look of surprise.
‘You are not on friendly terms with him?’
‘Well, we have drifted apart. For some reason he seemed to think that my companionship was not very profitable. So it was better, on the whole, that I should see neither you nor him.’
Amy was wondering whether he had heard of her legacy. He might have been informed by a Wattleborough correspondent, even if no one in London had told him.
‘Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marian?’ she asked, quitting the previous difficult topic.
