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And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. \" She rose to leave the kitchen. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. “Those things are arranged more easily in any other country than England. “May I tell Nigel to come and see you again? I am not here to do his love-making for him, you know. . ” “Wait? For what?” She replied. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently.
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