She had married him, influenced by a sudden, gust of physical inclination--by that glamour, too, under which she had seen him in Washington, a glamour of youth and novelty.

If she had seen him first in his natural environment she would have been on her guard; she would have realized what it meant to marry a man who could help her own ideals and ambitions so little.

And what, really, had their married life brought her?
Had she ever been _sure_ of Roger ?--had she ever been able to feel proud of him, in the company of really distinguished men ?--had she not been conscious, again and again, when in London, or Paris, or Berlin, that he was her inferior, that he spoiled her social and intellectual chances?
And his tone toward women had always been a low one; no great harm in it, perhaps; but it had often wounded and disgusted her.
And then--for climax!--his concealment of the early love affair with Chloe Fairmile; his weakness and folly in letting her regain her hold upon him; his behaviour at the Brendon ball, the gossip which, as Agnes Farmer declared, was all over the neighbourhood, ending in the last baseness--the assignation, the lies, the hypocrisy of the afternoon! Enough!--more than enough! What did she care what the English world thought of her?
She would free and right herself in her own way, and they might hold up what hands they pleased.

A passion of wounded vanity, of disappointed self-love swept through her.

She had looked forward to the English country life; she had meant to play a great part in it.