She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. And they had an idea of what men were like behind all their nicety. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. “Suppose I chuck it,” she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand —“suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! “Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come— “I could still go home!” She held Ramage’s check as if to tear it across.
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