Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. Even the children jeer. And yet I know not—for the object of his visit here to-night was to serve Jack, who, if your statement is correct, which I cannot however for a moment believe, does not deserve his assistance. Plote was sleeping or deaf. I thought one had only to take it by the throat. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. No further responsibility whatever. It’s artificially chance. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. “I had found her at last, and she shot me.
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