The life of the Quartier had already vaguely lost in charm since she knew that she must be irredeemably a failure in the atelier, though she told herself, with a hot tear or two, that no one loved it better, more comprehendingly, than she did.

Her impulse was to begin packing at once; but she put that off until the next day, and wrote two or three letters instead.
One was to John Kendal.

This is the whole of it: "Please believe me very grateful for your frankness this afternoon.

I have been most curiously blind.

But I agree with you that there is something else, and I am going away to find it out and to do it.