But she determined to endure it; and Richard Yaverland, who afar off had formed the intention of stopping and speaking to the girl with the poster because she had such hair, was suddenly reminded by the comic and romantic quality of her attitude that this was the typist he had met on the previous evening, whose manifest discontent and ambition had come into his mind more than once during his sleepless night and had distressed him until some recollected gesture or accent made him laugh.  He slightly resented this recognition and the change it worked on his emotional tone.  For he was compelled to think of her as a human being and be sorry because she was plainly cold and miserable; and it was his desire to look on women with a magpie thievish eye and no concern for their souls.  Considering the part that most of them played in life it was unwarrantable of them to have souls.  The dinner that one eats does not presume to have a soul.  But the happy freedom of the voluptuary was not for him; against his will there lived in him something sombre and kind that was sensitive to spiritual things and despondent but powerfully vigilant about the happiness of other people.  He said to himself, “That little girl is pretty well done up.  She’s nearly crying.  Someone must have been rude to her.” (He did not know his Ellen yet.) “I must give her a moment to get her poor little face straight.”  So until he drew level with her his dark eyes were fixed on the Castle Rock.

And Ellen thought, “Why, here is the big man who has been in Spain and South America and has the queer stains on his hands!  How big he is, and dark!  He looks like a king among these other people.  And how wonderful his eyes are!  He is miles away from here, seeing some distant beautiful thing.  Perhaps that mountainside he told us about where the reflection of the sky is like a purple shadow on the snow.  A poet must look like that when he is thinking of a poem.  But—­but—­if he keeps on staring up there he won’t see me and buy a paper.  I should like to interest him in the Cause.  And I daren’t speak to him.”  She flushed.  Though Mr. Philip’s claw had not done all the hurt it hoped, it had yet mauled its victim cruelly.  “That would look bold.”

But in the nick of time his eyes fell on her.  He gave a start of surprise and said in his kind, insolent voice: 

“Good morning.  So you’re a Suffragette.”

She was pleased to be publicly recognised by such a splendid person, and answered shyly; but caught a glint in his eyes which reminded her that she wasn’t perfectly sure that he really had thought she was thinking of the Argentine when she had proposed writing to Brazil in Spanish.  Was it possible that he was not being entirely respectful to her?  She would not have that, for she was splendid herself too, though the idiot world had given her no chance to show it.  She pulled herself together, knitted her brows, and looked as much like Mr. Gladstone as could be managed with such a pliable profile.