She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. “He’s got almost to like it. The chance had gone. Her pa was only the smithy. He knew she had been weeping. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. The latch came with a weak click.
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