Ennison paused by the little gate. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. The clock struck half-past ten. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. Stanley’s acquaintance in the train and shown him one or two trifling civilities. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger.
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