“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. After all, she found herself reflecting, behind her aunt’s complacent visage there was a past as lurid as any one’s—not, of course, her aunt’s own personal past, which was apparently just that curate and almost incredibly jejune, but an ancestral past with all sorts of scandalous things in it: fire and slaughterings, exogamy, marriage by capture, corroborees, cannibalism! Ancestresses with perhaps dim anticipatory likenesses to her aunt, their hair less neatly done, no doubt, their manners and gestures as yet undisciplined, but still ancestresses in the direct line, must have danced through a brief and stirring life in the woady buff. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. I hope I may never come near her. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. S. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk.
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