He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. “I hope you’re satisfied. Wood. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. The doctor drew out the contents hopefully. ” “It’s scandalous, but I suppose it is. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. This is such a grand time! Such a glorious time! There never was such a time as this! Everything seems so close to fruition, so coming on and leading on! The Insurrection of Women! They spring up everywhere. Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. Stonily he had disengaged himself. "What's the matter, father!" continued the new-comer, addressing Wood.
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