Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Strange, I could never learn her history. Sheila was finishing her laughter as Lucy brought an elbow down on the back of her head, expertly snapping the vertebra that connected Sheila’s head to her shoulders. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head.
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