She thought of a children’s party at the Spencers’, years ago; of falling in love at first sight with a most beautiful boy of ten called Archie, a cousin of the house. Dancing the baby polka with him, she had gazed enraptured at his profuse yellow locks and angelic pale-blue eyes. Between each dance he took a large broom from the corner of the room where he kept it, and swept the floor. (Why had he done that?) The fourth time she asked him to dance, he replied in a ringing treble, most gaily, most politely, rushing with his broom down the middle of the floor, ‘Another? Oh right you are! We’ve had quite a lot of dances together, haven’t we?’ And all the grown-ups sitting round the room had burst out laughing; and the sound was like houses falling. That had been the beginning of self-consciousness, of failure of confidence. Some day I’ll write a story about it. (96)

There is something there (…) but I can’t get at it, squarely;…I am in an odd state; feel a cleavage; here’s my interesting thing; & there’s no quite solid table on which to put it.