No doubt he was going his way without a thought of her, pleasantly
forgetting her or, at best, merely remembering her as one who had
proved a brief but satisfactory blessing, as many a passing sweetheart
has been to a man in his flight through time. No, she argued in
conflict with her inclinations, it was not to be thought of, this
senseless desire to go back and begin all over again. Everything was
over between them. She had made her choice on that never-to-be-
forgotten night and she had gone out of his life. There was no use
bewailing the fact that she was in the wrong and that his contentions
had been justified. She had made her bed, and she would lie in it. The
fault was with her, not with him--and yet she could never quite
forgive him for being right! She couldn't forget how angry she was
before she realised that his judgment was better than hers. As a
matter of fact, she couldn't help being a perfectly normal woman: she
enjoyed misery.

It must be recorded that she imposed upon the Bingles in one respect:
she did not mention the fact that she was or had been an actress. On
the other hand, she did not deceive them as to her lack of experience
as a teacher of young children. She confessed that the work was new to
her, but she confessed it so naively, so frankly, that they were
charmed into overlooking the most important detail in the matter of
engaging a governess. In fact, Mr. Bingle very properly said to his
wife that as she was expected to devote her time to children who had
no pedigree, "it wouldn't be along the line of common sense to exact
references from her." Besides, said he, she was so sure to be
satisfactory. It was only necessary to look into her honest eyes to
feel sure about that. And Mrs. Bingle, who was just then in the throes
of adopting Imogene, agreed to everything that Imogene's prospective