Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. He divorced her. Say something. "All I want is to be happy!" she said aloud, as if she were asking for something
of such ordinary value that God would readily accord it to her because there was
so little demand for the commodity. It is the bottom of the cup,
where all the dregs appear to settle. The account of the discovery of Sir Rowland's murder filled Winifred with
alarm; but when she learnt what had befallen Thames—how he had been
stricken down by the thief-taker's bludgeon, and left for dead, she uttered a
piercing scream, fainted, and would have fallen, if Jack had not caught her in his
arms. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were
sisters. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where
John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not
so special after all. But the people among whom she was now thrown through the
social exertions of Miss Miniver and the Widgetts—for Teddy and Hetty came
up from Morningside Park and took her to an eighteen-penny dinner in Soho and
introduced her to some art students, who were also Socialists, and so opened the
way to an evening of meandering talk in a studio—carried with them like an
atmosphere this implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even
obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but
that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and
indiscriminately “advanced,” for the new order to achieve itself.
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