‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. “She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s. I see them hanging out in the halls together all the time. I have no intention of arresting you. I could not dream of loving you.
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