"Come out!" roared Quilt, looking into the aperture. Miss Garvice assumed a quality of neutrality, professed herself almost won over by Ann Veronica’s example, and the Scotchman decided that if women had a distinctive sphere it was, at any rate, an enlarging sphere, and no one who believed in the doctrine of evolution could logically deny the vote to women “ultimately,” however much they might be disposed to doubt the advisability of its immediate concession. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do.
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