"_Do_ it Gowry," said Mr. Wilson ... "a book" ... he made his little sound behind his nose as he felt for the phrases that were to come after his next words ... "a--er--book; about a lamp-post. You see" he held up his minatory finger to keep off an onslaught and quench an eager monologue that began pouring from Miriam's nearest neighbour, and went on in his high weak husky voice. The young men were quiet. For a few moments the red lady and Alma made bright conversation as if nothing were happening; but with a curious hard emptiness in their voices, like people rehearsing and secretly angry with each other. Then they were silent, sitting posed and attentive, with uneasy intelligent smiling faces; their costumes and carefully arranged hair useless on their hands. Mrs. Binkley did not suffer so much as Alma; her corsetless eager crouch gave her the appearance of intentness, her hair waved naturally, had tendrils and could be left to look after itself; her fresh easy strength was ready for the next opportunity. It was only something behind her face that belied her happy pose. Alma was waiting in some curious fixed singleness of tension; her responses hovered fixed about her mouth, waiting for expression, she sat fixed in a frozen suspension of deliberate amiability and approval, approval of a certain chosen set of things; approval which excluded everything else with derision ... it was Alma's old derision, fixed and arranged in some way by Mr. Wilson. "There will be books--with all that cut out--him and her--all that sort of thing. The books of the future will be clear of all that." 6