Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. "His name, I say!—his name!" thundered the knight. His assistance came too late. Men do not understand constancy as women do. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return.
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