“What did it matter?” she cried. . Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. “Well, lodgings and things! And I paid my fees at the College. An unhappy little sigh escaped her. That would not help her.
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