even conscious intention, creating it irresistibly merely by their
natural desire. And that atmosphere was the breath of life to her. Soon
she could not imagine finding any real value in life without it. She
often considered plain girls, dull girls, middle-aged women who had
never had any beauty, any saving grace but that of freshness, and
wondered how they managed to get along at all. What was the use of life
to them? Nobody bothered about them, except, perhaps, a few relations,
or what are called "old friends"--that is, people who, having always
been accustomed to you, put up with you comfortably, and wear their
carpet slippers in your presence without troubling whether you like
slippers or would prefer them in high-heeled shoes.

As to old women, those from whom almost the last vestiges of what they
once had been physically had fallen away, she was always charming to
them; but she always wondered why they still seemed to cling on to life.
They were done with. It was long ago all over for them. They did not
matter any more, even if once they had mattered. Why did they still keep
a hold on life with their skinny hands? Was it from fear of death, or
what? Once she expressed her wonder about this to a man.

"Of course," she said. "I know they can't go just because they want to.
But why do they _want_ to stay?"

"Oh," he said, "I think lots of old ladies enjoy themselves immensely in
their own way."

"Well, I can't understand it!" she said.

And she spoke the truth.