But it had been drummed into her that she was a woman of the world, the fashionable and all but incomprehensible world, the English world.

She looked around and saw a hundred of her sex practising the well-bred deportment that Mrs.Considine had preached.

She reflected that to all of those women gently nurtured in this queer English civilisation, equally remote from Armour's stockyards and from her Albanian fastness, the wisdom that Barbara had imparted to her a few hours before was but their A.B.C.of life in their dealings with their male companions.

She also reflected--and for the reflection not Mrs.
Considine or Barbara, only her woman's heart was responsible--that to the man whom she yearned to feed with great tablespoonfuls of delight, she counted no more than a pig or a cow--her instinctive similes, you must remember, were pastoral--or that peculiar damfool of a sister of his, Euphemia.
When I think of these two children of nature, sitting opposite to one another in the fashionable restaurant trying to behave like super-civilised dolls, I cannot help smiling.

They were both so thoroughly in earnest; and they bored themselves and each other so dreadfully.