” “You are foolish,” she declared, with a note of irritability in her tone. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. ” “Yes, you have a sharp mind. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions.
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