Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. Courtlaw stood up. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. Hope reared. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. ‘Damnation! Too late.
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