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craved no flame. Monica’s mind still followed the probing simile while she asked, schooling her voice: ‘Do you feel that possible?’

‘Perfectly possible. I feel as if it had begun already,’ said Celia. ‘We might never have made friends in London, but we may be friends here in the country. Her London, I mean, could never be mine, but her country may be. It’s quite different, isn’t it? One wants such different things in the country.’

‘One always wants affinity, I think.’

‘But affinity grows, Monica. And funny little things can make it grow.—I’ve never really seen Hester in her own home before,’ said Celia, her eyes on her friend. ‘And she showed me her new dress, that red and silver dress she got for your dinner; I never imagined Hester showing her dresses or caring about them, but she ran up to fetch it, when Clive asked her to—so eager and pleased—and she looked at me with such an earnest, wistful look, and said: ‘Do you think she’ll like it?’ as though she were outside and wanted to come in. And I felt such a queer little pang, Monica, for I knew you wouldn’t really like it;—that it wasn’t a bit your sort of dress. And when you feel pangs for people, it makes you fond of them.’