The door leaned inward. ” “May I put you in a hansom?” he asked, lifting his stick. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive. 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.
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