He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. “He’s got almost to like it. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. I’ve no name for it yet. Miss Klegg raised the question of women’s suffrage, and he set himself to provoke a duel between her and Miss Garvice. Anything.
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