And she seemed always to keep one eye on Ann Veronica’s dress. The boy she had loved was gone. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. Some day, when the rewards of literature permit the arduous research required, the Campaign of the Women will find its Carlyle, and the particulars of that marvellous series of exploits by which Miss Brett and her colleagues nagged the whole Western world into the discussion of women’s position become the material for the most delightful and amazing descriptions. There is no other way. “I want a vote for myself,” she said.
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