He knew. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk.
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