"This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself. In a momentary fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the easel. He was now almost driven to despair.
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