them education, and treat them as equals, and they can do anything we white people can do." She looked around. "Where is George? I must tell him." She went out, but George Trevelyan was not to be found. He was walking up and down the path furthest from the house, in the shrubbery—up and down in all the mist and fog, the pipe he still held between his teeth long gone out, his clothes soaked through with rain.
When the guests were gone to bed, he came to the drawing-room window and looked through. Mrs. Allison was seated before the fire, her head in her hands. He heard her sigh deeply as he pushed the closed French window open. She looked up as he entered, trying to smile.
"Not in bed," she exclaimed, "or even playing billiards with the men! Where have you been? Lucy has just left for her room, disconsolate at not bidding you good-night."
He came to the fireside looking sternly down at her, his hands clenched behind him.
"I stood outside the window there smoking this evening," he said hoarsely, "and I heard the women talk."
