” The man contented himself with a nod. She had nothing to say for herself. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. She loved to be told to do things. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. 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.
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