. . . One has to learn. . . ."
7
And with an effect of detachment, just as though it didn't belong to
the rest of him at all, there was beginning a sort of backstairs and
underside to Benham's life. There is no need to discuss how
inevitable that may or may not be in the case of a young man of
spirit and large means, nor to embark upon the discussion of the
temptations and opportunities of large cities. Several ladies, of
various positions and qualities, had reflected upon his manifest
need of education. There was in particular Mrs. Skelmersdale, a
very pretty little widow with hazel eyes, black hair, a mobile
mouth, and a pathetic history, who talked of old music to him and
took him to a Dolmetsch concert in Clifford's Inn, and expanded that
common interest to a general participation in his indefinite
outlook. She advised him about his probable politics--everybody did
that--but when he broke through his usual reserve and suggested
views of his own, she was extraordinarily sympathetic. She was so
sympathetic and in such a caressing way that she created a temporary
belief in her understanding, and it was quite imperceptibly that he
was drawn into the discussion of modern ethical problems.
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