They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Squads reached to the very portal of that centre of disturbance. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears.
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