In her mind she knew perfectly well that what several people had said
was true: the profession she had chosen was too arduous for her physical
strength. Besides, now she could not bear the idea of nursing anyone
else after Aylmer. She was trying to make up her mind to take something
else--and she could not think what.
A girl like Dulcie Clay, who has studied only one thing really
thoroughly, could be fitted only to be a companion either to children,
whom she adored, or to some tedious elderly lady with fads. She knew she
would not do for a secretary; she had not the education nor the gift
for it.
The thought of going back to the stepmother who showed so clearly her
satisfaction and high spirits in having got rid of her, and of being
again the unwanted third in the little house in West Kensington, was
quite unbearable.
She had told much of her position to Edith, who was so sympathetic and
clever. It would have been a dream of hers, a secret dream, to teach
Edith's little girl, whom she had once seen, and loved. Yet that would
have been in some ways rather difficult. As she looked out of the
window, darkened with fog, she sighed.
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