“Want to see Mr. ” Lucy’s eyebrows knitted, trying to remember an unfortunate chinless girl running around the school. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. Were the parents agreeable? Were they of age? Had the license been procured? But here, in a far country, only the velvet manacles of wedlock were necessary.
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