Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

So, finding it sweet to be loved as this man loved her, she temporized. It was not fair to him, and she knew it, but at the back of her mind was the hope that something might happen, such as her being able to move him by imperceptible degrees towards a life that would be less lonely. As yet she had no philosophy of life, and neither knew what was worth getting, nor how to get it. She was ignorant of those dear and durable loyalties, or a calmness of mind that is independent of the crowd. To hundreds of sensitive women that old Sussex homestead would have put forth many appeals. They would have understood its sureness, its permanence, its happy and green isolation, secure from the yelling voices of little common children and the cheap and gaping crowd. It had beauty, and permanence, but much of modernity asks for neither. Almost it would seem that the new spirit asks for permanence, and regards marriage or any such human relationship as a citizen of God's Own Country regards his motor-car, good for a year. That, in a way was Mary's feeling, and it was a very natural feeling, though she was unconscious of the rather pathetic vulgarity of her so-called ideals. She was both attracted and repelled by sex. She was experiencing all the curiosity of youth in the presence of a new and old sensation. To be kissed and held close, and to be looked at as though the lower part of her was human, and all above her breasts divine! It made her feel smooth as silk, and warm in her body.

Well--well! She sighed, and kissed back, and temporized, and supposed that men might be persuaded out of the deeps of their devotion to uproot themselves and take root elsewhere. Surely, land was land, and a farm a farm. She even went so far as to write to Clare, in strict confidence of course, to ask her whether people did not farm near Weyfleet. Yes, twenty or thirty miles from town, where you had shops, and a tennis club and dances, and cheap Wednesday tickets to town, and where those expeditions--so dear to women--were possible. Clare wrote back to say that--of course-- people farmed in Surrey. Weyfleet was "country," not a suburb. Mary must most certainly not bury herself in Sussex. The servant problem would be too awful; it was sufficiently awful at Weyfleet. Leslie, Clare's husband, knew one of the local estate agents very well--and should they make tactful inquiries?