It was empty. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. 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. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. "Come, then," said Wild, marching towards the door, "we've no time to lose. I don't think he'll come to himself too soon. Jackson!" "So he would," replied the latter: "so he would.
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