Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. I’ll have to make a visit out of town. My birthday was on May first. We felt like thieves. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. Everybody talking of you. “It means that I have had enough of this slavery,” she declared.
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