The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Anyhow, now you’ve begun it, there’s nothing to keep us in all this from being the best friends in the world. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest— that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself.
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