A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. What she admired in her man was his resolute defense of his opinions. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. “Afterwards,” she said, “I should be perfectly content to have everything done for me. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. Just then—I was nervous. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. ‘Something in that, missie.
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