"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. “I did,” Anna answered. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. “It was inevitable,” he declared. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. 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. “Generally gets here about seven. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid.
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