The tragedy of it all was perhaps, that Barbara had not herself that coloured vitality in her that would prepare other people to be fond of her.

The world is divided between those who place affection about, now here, now there, and those whose souls lie, like drawers, unawares, but ready for the affection to be laid there.
Barbara could not "place" it about; she had neither optimism nor a sense of humour sufficient.

But she wanted it--wanted it terribly.

If she were not to be allowed to indulge her imagination, then must she, all the more, love some one with fervour: the two things were interdependent.
She surveyed her world with an eye to this possible loving.

There was her governess, who had been with her for a year now, tearful, bony, using Barbara as a means and never as an end.