of them. The girl and the married woman. She felt no jealousy and no
interest in them beyond wondering which of them it would be and what
they would be like. There had been two Mary Oliviers; long-haired--
short-haired, and she had been jealous of the long-haired one. Jealous
of herself.

There had been two Maurice Jourdains, the one who said, "I'll understand.
I'll never lose my temper"; the one with the crystal mind, shining and
flashing, the mind like a big room filled from end to end with light. But
he had never existed.

Maurice Jourdain was only a name. A name for intellectual beauty. You
could love that. Love was "the cle-eansing _fi_-yer!" There was the love
of the body and the love of the soul. Perhaps she had loved Maurice
Jourdain with her soul and not with her body. No. She had _not_ loved him
with her soul, either. Body and soul; soul and body. Spinoza said they
were two aspects of the same thing. _What_ thing? Perhaps it was silly to
ask what thing; it would be just body _and_ soul. Somebody talked about a
soul dragging a corpse. Her body wasn't a corpse; it was strong and
active; it could play games and jump; it could pick Dan up and carry him
round the table; it could run a mile straight on end. It could excite
itself with its own activity and strength. It dragged a corpse-like soul,
dull and heavy; a soul that would never be excited again, never lift
itself up again in any ecstasy.

If only he had let her alone. If only she could go back to her real life.
But she couldn't. She couldn't feel any more her sudden, secret
happiness. Maurice Jourdain had driven it away. It had nothing to do with
Maurice Jourdain. He ought not to have been able to take it from you.