But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. I’m like a creature just wakened up. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. She had trouble outwitting him as he seemed to predict her words before he said them. She was in a very uncritical state that afternoon. The aunt laughed. She had one idea, she found, very clear in her mind—that she would get a Research Scholarship, and so contrive another year in the laboratory. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. He got up.
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