Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. "Sir Cecil is no more. And afterward her mother and Alice kissed long and clung to each other.
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