They were very much afraid of her father.  He was a great dim force in the house, by means of which they held on to the great world which is represented every morning in the Times.  But the real life of the house was something quite different from this.  It went on independently of Mr. Vinrace, and tended to hide itself from him.  He was good-humoured towards them, but contemptuous.  She had always taken it for granted that his point of view was just, and founded upon an ideal scale of things where the life of one person was absolutely more important than the life of another, and that in that scale they were much less importance than he was.  But did she really believe that?  Hewet’s words made her think.  She always submitted to her father, just as they did, but it was her aunts who influenced her really; her aunts who built up the fine, closely woven substance of their life at home.  They were less splendid but more natural than her father was.  All her rages had been against them; it was their world with its four meals, its punctuality, and servants on the stairs at half-past ten, that she examined so closely and wanted so vehemently to smash to atoms.  Following these thoughts she looked up and said: 

“And there’s a sort of beauty in it—­there they are at Richmond at this very moment building things up.  They’re all wrong, perhaps, but there’s a sort of beauty in it,” she repeated.  “It’s so unconscious, so modest.  And yet they feel things.  They do mind if people die.  Old spinsters are always doing things.  I don’t quite know what they do.  Only that was what I felt when I lived with them.  It was very real.”

She reviewed their little journeys to and fro, to Walworth, to charwomen with bad legs, to meetings for this and that, their minute acts of charity and unselfishness which flowered punctually from a definite view of what they ought to do, their friendships, their tastes and habits; she saw all these things like grains of sand falling, falling through innumerable days, making an atmosphere and building up a solid mass, a background.  Hewet observed her as she considered this.

“Were you happy?” he demanded.

Again she had become absorbed in something else, and he called her back to an unusually vivid consciousness of herself.

“I was both,” she replied.  “I was happy and I was miserable.  You’ve no conception what it’s like—­to be a young woman.”  She looked straight at him.  “There are terrors and agonies,” she said, keeping her eye on him as if to detect the slightest hint of laughter.

“I can believe it,” he said.  He returned her look with perfect sincerity.

“Women one sees in the streets,” she said.

“Prostitutes?”

“Men kissing one.”

He nodded his head.

“You were never told?”

She shook her head.