CHAPTER XXXI. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. They compromised at length on the science course at the Tredgold Women’s College—she had already matriculated into London University from school—she came of age, and she bickered with her aunt for latch-key privileges on the strength of that and her season ticket. Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions. Got detained in the City, and——” Then he met the fixed, breathless gaze of those wonderful eyes from the other side of the table, and he, too, broke off in the middle of his sentence. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between him and God.
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