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Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. He knew it to be St. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind.
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