“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. Wild. If you can imagine it, I survived it. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. He was not a sailor. She was a clever girl, the best of her year in the High School, and she made a valiant fight for Somerville or Newnham but her father had met and argued with a Somerville girl at a friend’s dinner-table and he thought that sort of thing unsexed a woman. “After all, there are great things left in the world for you. He had taken it back. ‘Very inventive.
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