He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. “I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair. ‘You are extremely empty-headed, Lucy. ‘Would you like me to enquire for your mystery lady, Gerald? I know the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme quite well. The chance had gone. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection.
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