She has been speculating on her impunity, on the idea that her danger would hold off: she has literally been running a race with it.

Her theory has been, as you from the first so clearly saw, that she'd get in ahead.

She swears to me that though the 'bar' is too cruel she wears when she's alone what she has been ordered to wear.

But when the deuce is she alone?
It's herself of course that she has swindled worst: she has put herself off, so insanely that even her conceit but half accounts for it, with little inadequate concessions, little false measures and preposterous evasions and childish hopes.

Her great terror is now that Iffield, who already has suspicions, who has found out her pince-nez but whom she has beguiled with some unblushing hocus-pocus, may discover the dreadful facts; and the essence of what she wanted this morning was in that interest to square me, to get me to deny indignantly and authoritatively (for isn't she my 'favourite sitter ?') that she has anything in life the matter with any part of her.