“My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. Then a surge of rage welled up. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her.
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