A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. We thought of starting in half an hour’s time, and trying for a theatre somewhere on the way. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park.
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