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His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. 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. Goodbye. “Hold on. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice.
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