“What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. An iron fillet secured the socket of the bolt and the box of the lock to the main post of the doorway. If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit—anything might happen. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. After several vain attempts to burst it open, he resolved, as a last alternative, to break through the wall in the part nearest to the lock. “You are in trouble,” he said. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. ’ ‘Listen. We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart. From the first I could see that neither believed my story.
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