CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. ‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops. One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. But just now there is nothing which you or anybody can do. It had been her home for hundreds of years. ‘Ah, Madame Joan. Earles’ waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar’s office. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk.
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