"Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. The servants had left the room. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. And then they talked of Anarchism and Socialism, and whether the former was the exact opposite of the latter or only a higher form. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. I wasn’t.
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