Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. She was nearly dead. " "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black. . The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. ’ She grimaced. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes.
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