” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. “I am only sorry that I did not ask you to go with me. I’ve had enough of it. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. " Mr. ” “Some little tiff?” “No; but I don’t think I shall see them. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face. Miss Stanley had determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for her youngest niece and to be a second mother in her life—a second and a better one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much in herself that Ann Veronica failed to understand. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. 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. .
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