Then she looked up at Brendon. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. “You must not think of me as one. ” She said. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall.
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