, Rachel Wynne," said Roger, introducing her to him.

Rachel Wynne was a tall, thin girl, with a curious tightened look, as if
she were keeping a close hold on herself. When she held out her hand to
him, he had a sensation of discomfort, not because her clasp was firm,
but because she seemed to be looking, not through him, but into him. He
was very sensitive to the opinion of people about him, feeling very
quickly the dislike of any one who did not care for him, and in a moment
he knew that Rachel Wynne was antipathetic to him. Henry was always rude
to people whom he disliked ... he could not be civil to them, however
hard he might try to be so, but his feeling in the presence of people
who disliked him, was one of powerlessness: he was tongue-tied and
nervous and very dull, and his faculties seemed to shrivel up. There was
a look of cold efficiency about Rachel Wynne that frightened him. She
seemed to be incapable of wasting time or of waywardness. Her career at
Newnham, Roger had told him, had been one of steady brilliance. "There
wasn't a flicker in it," he had said to Henry. "Rachel's always
well-trimmed!"

There were no ragged edges about Rachel Wynne. Her frock was neatly
made, so neatly that he was unaware of it, and her hair was bound
tightly to her head by a black velvet ribbon. She had a look of cold
tidiness, as if she had been frozen into her shape and could not be
thawed out of it; but she was not cold in spirit, as he discovered
during dinner when the conversation shifted from generalities about
themselves to the work she had lately been doing. They had been talking
about Gilbert's play, and then Mrs. Graham had turned to Henry and told
him how much she liked his novels. Her tastes were simple, and she
preferred "Broken Spears" to "Drusilla." "Of course, 'Drusilla' is very
clever!" she said a little deprecatingly, and then she turned to Rachel
and asked her whether she had read Henry's novels.

"No," Rachel answered. "I very seldom read novels!..."

He felt contempt for her. Now he knew why he had been chilled by her
presence. She belonged to that order of prigs which will not read
novels, preferring instead to read "serious" books. Such a woman would
treat "Tom Jones" as a frivolous book, less illuminating than some
tedious biography or history book. She might even deny that it had any
illumination at all.... He could not prevent a sneer from his retort to
her statement that she seldom read novels.