” She spoke rather quickly, because she found her father’s question the most awkward she had ever had to answer in her life. Nigel, you have not forgotten!” “No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed.
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