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The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. One day they were at tea in the laboratory and a discussion sprang up about the question of women’s suffrage. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. ’ She ended on a note of sheer frustration, clenched fists beating the air. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. "Sir Cecil is no more. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked.
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