She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. Wagstaff. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. . There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I came here this afternoon hoping particularly to see you for a few moments before you signed that contract. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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