Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. “You cowards!” said Ann Veronica, “put her down!” and tore herself from a detaining hand and battered with her fists upon the big red ear and blue shoulder of the policeman who held the little old lady. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. ” “I wasn’t jesting,” said Capes, abruptly. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted. Had to. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. “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.
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