To-night all London believes that he was your husband. She was curious, and at the same time clearly resolved she must not hear it. She felt flattered. 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. Brendon’s guests,” she said, “and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney. I have said good-bye to it all. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth.
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