the Nile."

The brutality of her frankness startled and almost pained him. For a
moment, in it he seemed to discern a lack of taste.

"You are right," she said; and suddenly the lightness died away
altogether from her voice. "But how is one not to get blunted? And even
long ago I always hated pretence. Women are generally pretending. And
they are wise. I have never been wise. If I were wise, I should not let
you see my lonely, stupid, undignified situation."

Suddenly she turned so that the light from the window fell full upon
her, and lifted her veil up over the brim of her hat.

"Nor my face, upon which, of course, must be written all sorts of
worries and sorrows. But I couldn't pretend at eighteen, nor can I at
thirty-eight. No wonder so many men--the kind of men you meet at your
club, at the Marlborough, or the Bachelors', or the Travellers'--call me
an 'ass of a woman.' I am an ass of a woman, a little--little--ass."

In saying the very last words all the severity slipped away out of her
voice, and as she smiled again and moved her head, emphasizing
humorously her own reproach to herself, she looked almost a girl.

"The 'little' applies to my mind, of course, not to my body; or perhaps
I ought to say to my soul, instead of to my body."

"No, 'little' would be the wrong adjective for your soul," Nigel said.

Mrs. Chepstow looked touched, and turned once more away from the light,