At the bottom of her heart she was not a bit afraid of Ramage. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. “I do hope that I shall be able to make it up to you. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. Escape was now impossible. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai.
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