It was entirely different from her long and really intimate friendship with Vincy.

Vincy was her confidant, her friend.

She could tell _him_ everything, and she did, and he confided in her and told her all except one side of his life, of which she was aware, but to which she never referred.

This was his secret romance with a certain girl artist of whom he never spoke, although Edith knew that some day he would tell her about that also.
But with Aylmer there was, and would always be, less real freedom and impersonal frankness, because there was so much more selfconsciousness; in fact because there was an unacknowledged but very strong mutual physical attraction.

Edith had, however, felt until now merely the agreeable excitement of knowing that a man she liked, and in whom she was immensely interested, was growing apparently devoted to her, while _she_ had always believed that she would know how to deal with the case in such a way that it could never lead to anything more--that is to say, to more than _she_ wished.
And now, he was going away.