She became aware of the Scotch student regarding her with stupendous amazement, a tea-cup poised in one hairy hand and his faceted glasses showing a various enlargement of segments of his eye. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. The proposal is so far from being exorbitant, that it should be trebled if I had not a fellow-feeling in the cause. I have only just left Wych Street. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. No tricks would serve. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt.
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