There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. I demand it as a right. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. Wood, contemptuously. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished.
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