Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. Miss Garvice assumed a quality of neutrality, professed herself almost won over by Ann Veronica’s example, and the Scotchman decided that if women had a distinctive sphere it was, at any rate, an enlarging sphere, and no one who believed in the doctrine of evolution could logically deny the vote to women “ultimately,” however much they might be disposed to doubt the advisability of its immediate concession. It is a big house and there are many rooms in which to hide. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper.
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