Nigel Ennison was he. She stepped into his arms. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. ’ ‘Then leave me to guard myself, and do not ask me questions any more,’ she snapped, and crouched down suddenly, searching about for her dagger. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again. She looked steadfastly out. “You ask me to be engaged to you, Mr. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that. ” They returned to the crypt.
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