It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Wood laughed louder than ever. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. I’ve had a headache all day. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly.
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