She didn't want to get well. She could see nothing in recovery but the end
of privilege and prestige, the obligation to return to a task she was
tired of, a difficult and terrifying task.

By summer she was up and (tremulously) about again.



XIV


She was aware of her drowsy, supine dependence on Maggie. At first her
perishing self asserted itself in an increased reserve and arrogance. Thus
she protected herself from her own censure. She had still a feeling of
satisfaction in her exclusiveness, her power not to call on new people.

"I think," Lizzie Pierce said, "you might have called on the Brailsfords."

"Why should I? I should have nothing in common with such people."

"Well, considering that Mr. Brailsford writes in _The Spectator_----"

Harriett called. She put on her gray silk and her soft white mohair shawl,
and her wide black hat tied under her chin, and called. It was on a
Saturday. The Brailsfords' room was full of visitors, men and women,
talking excitedly. Dorothy was not there--Dorothy was married. Mimi was
not there--Mimi was dead.

Harriett made her way between the chairs, dim-eyed, upright, and stiff in
her white shawl. She apologized for having waited seven years before