She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. ‘Possibly,’ he said. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. A medley of motives warred in her, and it was certainly not one of the least of these that she knew herself to be passionately in love with Capes; at moments she had a giddy intimation that he was beginning to feel keenly interested in her. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. The less she lived, in fact, the better. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire.
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