Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. But this is all different. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed.
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