She soon forgot Louis de Rocheouart, but his place was not long left
empty. She fell in love with another young man.

Eventually--by this time she had almost ceased to struggle, was not
far from being a complete victim to her temperament--she seriously
considered the possibility of marrying again, and of marrying a man many
years younger than herself. Several women whom she knew had done this.
Why should not she do it? Such marriages seldom turned out well, seldom
lasted very long. But there were exceptions to every rule. Her marriage,
if she made it, might be an exception. She was now only forty-eight.
(She had reached the age when that qualifying word is applied to the
years.) Women older, much older, than herself, had married mere boys.
She did not intend to do that. But why should she not take a charming
man of, say, thirty into her life?

The mere thought of having such a husband, such a companion in Number
18A, Berkeley Square, sent a glow through her mind and body. What a
flood of virility, anticipation, new strength, new interests he would
bring with him! She imagined his loud, careless step on the stairs, his
strong bass or baritone voice resounding in the rooms; she heard the
doors banged by his reckless hand; she saw his raincoats, his caps, his
golf clubs, his gun cases littering the hall. When she motored he would
be at the wheel instead of a detached and rigid-faced chauffeur, and he
would whirl her along, taking risk, all the time.

But would he be able to love her?

Her diffidence and her vanity fought over that question; fought
furiously, and with an ugly tenacity. It seemed that the vanity