The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. She sings better perhaps. Melusine sighed with frustration. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. John picked it up and put it in her hands. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. Find that boy.
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