Lucy looked about confusedly. Girls erupted in waves of whispering as soon as she passed them by. He looked no longer at his wife. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. “Annabel,” she said slowly, “if I fight this thing out myself, can I trust you that it will not be a vain sacrifice? After what you have said it is useless for us to play with words.
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