Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. Lucy grabbed its handle, her broken bones mending inside her causing her to wince in pain. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. Dolls. I'll write out certain rules of conduct, and then you'll never be in doubt. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground.
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