"What's that?" asked Wild. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. "Do you hear me?" cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. I can smell you. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding.
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