"Ever play one of these machines?" "Yes. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. She loved him. "Ah!" exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really.
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