Very doubtful. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. He is the one who has said that she must go to the convent. It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. I bored him. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. She began to look for beauty and discover it in unexpected aspects and places. A woman cannot change her soul. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action.
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