They both listened intently. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. 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. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel.
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