” Miss Stanley rose and regarded Ann Veronica fixedly. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. No matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room.
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