went she was more glad to be alone, for nobody
not Kate Croy, not Susan Shepherd either would
have wished to rush with her as she rushed. She
had asked him at the last whether, being on foot,
she might go home so, or elsewhere, and he had re
plied as if almost amused again at her extravagance:
"You re active, luckily, by nature it's beautiful:
therefore rejoice in it. Be active, without folly
for you re not foolish: be as active as you can and
as you like." That had been in fact the final push,
as well as the touch that most made a mixture of
her consciousness a strange mixture that tasted at
one and the same time of what she had lost and what
had been given her. It was wonderful to her, while
she took her random course, that these quantities felt
so equal: she had been treated hadn't she? as if
it were in her power to live; and yet one wasn't
treated so was one? unless it came up, quite as
much, that one might die. The beauty of the bloom
had gone from the small old sense of safety that
was distinct: she had left it behind her there forever.
But the beauty of the idea of a great adventure, a big
dim experiment or struggle in which she might,
more responsibly than ever before, take a hand, had
been offered her instead. It was as if she had had to
pluck off her breast, to throw away, some friendly
ornament, a familiar flower, a little old jewel, that
was part of her daily dress; and to take up and
shoulder as a substitute some queer defensive
weapon, a musket, a spear, a battle-axe conducive

[[271]]

p270 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p271w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p272

v?