"Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She spoke slowly. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. One must be on guard. He introduced her as his \"friend\" Lucy. He went over her features one by one in his mind. Mild, you know, and boon. But the people among whom she was now thrown through the social exertions of Miss Miniver and the Widgetts—for Teddy and Hetty came up from Morningside Park and took her to an eighteen-penny dinner in Soho and introduced her to some art students, who were also Socialists, and so opened the way to an evening of meandering talk in a studio—carried with them like an atmosphere this implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and indiscriminately “advanced,” for the new order to achieve itself. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked.
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