“How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous laugh. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. She saw his face change, how he regretted. “It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art.
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