“’Not really vainer than men.  Lack of self-confidence at the base of most serious faults.  Dislike of own sex traditional, or founded on fact?  Every woman not so much a rake at heart, as an optimist, because they don’t think.’  What do you say, Rachel?” He paused with his pencil in his hand and a sheet of paper on his knee.

Rachel said nothing.  Up and up the steep spiral of a very late Beethoven sonata she climbed, like a person ascending a ruined staircase, energetically at first, then more laboriously advancing her feet with effort until she could go no higher and returned with a run to begin at the very bottom again.

“’Again, it’s the fashion now to say that women are more practical and less idealistic than men, also that they have considerable organising ability but no sense of honour’—­query, what is meant by masculine term, honour?—­what corresponds to it in your sex?  Eh?”

Attacking her staircase once more, Rachel again neglected this opportunity of revealing the secrets of her sex.  She had, indeed, advanced so far in the pursuit of wisdom that she allowed these secrets to rest undisturbed; it seemed to be reserved for a later generation to discuss them philosophically.

Crashing down a final chord with her left hand, she exclaimed at last, swinging round upon him: 

“No, Terence, it’s no good; here am I, the best musician in South America, not to speak of Europe and Asia, and I can’t play a note because of you in the room interrupting me every other second.”

“You don’t seem to realise that that’s what I’ve been aiming at for the last half-hour,” he remarked.  “I’ve no objection to nice simple tunes—­indeed, I find them very helpful to my literary composition, but that kind of thing is merely like an unfortunate old dog going round on its hind legs in the rain.”

He began turning over the little sheets of note-paper which were scattered on the table, conveying the congratulations of their friends.

“‘—­all possible wishes for all possible happiness,’” he read; “correct, but not very vivid, are they?”

“They’re sheer nonsense!” Rachel exclaimed.  “Think of words compared with sounds!” she continued.  “Think of novels and plays and histories—­” Perched on the edge of the table, she stirred the red and yellow volumes contemptuously.  She seemed to herself to be in a position where she could despise all human learning.  Terence looked at them too.

“God, Rachel, you do read trash!” he exclaimed.  “And you’re behind the times too, my dear.  No one dreams of reading this kind of thing now—­antiquated problem plays, harrowing descriptions of life in the east end—­oh, no, we’ve exploded all that.  Read poetry, Rachel, poetry, poetry, poetry!”

Picking up one of the books, he began to read aloud, his intention being to satirise the short sharp bark of the writer’s English; but she paid no attention, and after an interval of meditation exclaimed: