Elizabeth was kinder than ever to Wendell after that, just to show “people” how little she cared what they thought. Mrs. Trelawney’s snub had enraged her, made her feel brazen and devil-may-care.

Wendell was delighted with this mood, and became more audacious. He dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder one evening, and was surprised that Elizabeth recoiled.

“Charles!”

“Fascinating little devil!” he retorted, fumbling in his case for a cigarette.

“You mustn’t do that,” she said. “I—I don’t like it.”

“Oh, sorry—sorry! Have a Turk?”

“No, thank you. I mean it, Charles.”

He laughed; he didn’t believe her; she saw that. She knew then that she ought to keep him at a greater distance, but the gay life they were leading, coming as it did after a long stretch of dull, eventless days, had excited her. There was risk, too, in playing with Charles, and that she could not resist. After all, he knew that she was married, and there wasn’t really anything serious in their flirtations. Only she would have to be careful.

She had never been on terms such as these with a man. Before she met Stephen her flirtations were hardly worthy of the name; she had been too shy. The primeval instinct within her urged her along this dangerous path. It was fun, and there was no harm in it; she believed fondly that it would be quite easy, always, to keep Charles at arm’s length.

In Bond Street, standing outside a hat-shop and wishing that she could still afford to buy hats here, Elizabeth met Mrs. Ramsay.

A hand was laid on her arm; a voice said,

“Elizabeth, are you going to cut me? Please don’t! I hate people to cut me.”

Elizabeth turned, blushing, and could not meet Mrs. Ramsay’s eyes. She could hear the constraint in Mrs. Ramsay’s voice, and the forced lightness. She shook hands, stammering, and saw that Cynthia’s car, with Cynthia at the wheel, was standing a few yards away from them.

“My dear, why haven’t you been to see me all this time?” Mrs. Ramsay asked. “Don’t you remember the bargain we made, when we were watching those adorable ducks?”

Elizabeth hesitated; she thought, You never asked me to come. Mrs. Ramsay seemed to read the thought.

“Oh, I know! I didn’t write or come to see you. Horrid of me. I think I’m sorry. Will you come? Not if you don’t want to, of course. I promised Stephen I wouldn’t bother you.”

“Th-thank you,” Elizabeth said. “It’s—very, very kind of you. I—I know that—and I think it’s sweet of you—”