She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. “Ah!” said Ramage, impressively. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. Burn your palette and your easel. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble.
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