Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face. 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. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. Ann Veronica’s tense nerves started, and she stood still with her eyes upon him, wondering what it might be that impended. No offence, I hope. I have told you. The touch of her hands was pleasurable.
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