"Where are you going?" cried Thames, who, though wholly disencumbered, was scarcely able to keep up with him. . ’ ‘Melusine!’ came sharply from the doorway. His tone was rough, almost threatening. He caught the elderly dame’s eye, throwing her a desperate message. Trust you. She will sail, at early dawn to-morrow, for Rotterdam. You understand what I mean. 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.
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