CHAPTER XXXII. Gerald kicked the panelled wall in frustration. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. As a dog eats grass. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping.
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