He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. Ramage did not know. You must not, however, accompany me, Jack. He insisted once again on opening the car door for her.
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