19/34 There had been no meddling of freakish hands with her dark hair this morning. It was tightly plaited at the back of her head. Her plain sun-shade, her black kid gloves were neatness itself--middle-class, sabbatical neatness. He had been meditating on 'women'-- the delightfulness of 'women,' his own natural inclination to their society. But how narrow is everybody's world! His collective noun of course had referred merely to that small, high-bred, cosmopolitan class which presents types like Eleanor Burgoyne. |