There was a hint of tears in her voice. I must take you to the Suffrage people, and the Tolstoyans, and the Fabians. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. . ’ ‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. .
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