’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. Then there was also the horse. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “For men have reason, women rhyme A man scores always, all the time.
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