With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. He recoiled from the sting. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said.
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