” He did not look at her. “Hello, Vee!” he said. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher.
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