“Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. 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. Plainly.
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