Can you lend me some stuff?” “You ARE a chap!” said Constance, and warmed only slowly from the idea of dissuasion to the idea of help. 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. He dropped the key on the counterpane. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger.
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