” “But will you?” “YES. ” “May I ask,” Anna said softly, “what you presume to have been the nature of my errand here this evening?” Sir John pointed to Annabel, who was as yet utterly limp. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. Annabel, I was lying. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. You keep on coming truer, after you have seemed to come altogether true. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake.
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