The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. Upon this topic Capes was heavy and conscientious, but that seemed to her to be just exactly what he ought to be. She heard him come in; the light burned on. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ protested Hilary angrily.
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