. 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. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. “Oh, yes, that’s right, we go to school. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. Wait a moment. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. .
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