And no ill-chances. I love my husband. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. “Steady on!” he cried. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. Suppose—suppose a girl did want to start in life, start in life for herself—” She looked him frankly in the eyes.
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