“Solitary walks?”

“That’s the point of them.  I think over all sorts of things.”

“Problems?”

“Sometimes quite difficult problems.”

“You’re lucky to live in an age when you can do so.  Your mother, for instance, couldn’t.  She had to do her thinking at home—­under inspection.”

She looked down on him thoughtfully, and he let his admiration of her free young poise show in his face.

“I suppose things have changed?” she said.

“Never was such an age of transition.”

She wondered what to.  Mr. Ramage did not know.  “Sufficient unto me is the change thereof,” he said, with all the effect of an epigram.

“I must confess,” he said, “the New Woman and the New Girl intrigue me profoundly.  I am one of those people who are interested in women, more interested than I am in anything else.  I don’t conceal it.  And the change, the change of attitude!  The way all the old clingingness has been thrown aside is amazing.  And all the old—­the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch.  If you had lived twenty years ago you would have been called a Young Person, and it would have been your chief duty in life not to know, never to have heard of, and never to understand.”

“There’s quite enough still,” said Ann Veronica, smiling, “that one doesn’t understand.”

“Quite.  But your role would have been to go about saying, ’I beg your pardon’ in a reproving tone to things you understood quite well in your heart and saw no harm in.  That terrible Young Person! she’s vanished.  Lost, stolen, or strayed, the Young Person!...  I hope we may never find her again.”

He rejoiced over this emancipation.  “While that lamb was about every man of any spirit was regarded as a dangerous wolf.  We wore invisible chains and invisible blinkers.  Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and {}Honi soit qui mal y pense.  The change has given man one good thing he never had before,” he said.  “Girl friends.  And I am coming to believe the best as well as the most beautiful friends a man can have are girl friends.”

He paused, and went on, after a keen look at her: 

“I had rather gossip to a really intelligent girl than to any man alive.”

“I suppose we are more free than we were?” said Ann Veronica, keeping the question general.

“Oh, there’s no doubt of it!  Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—­my young days go back to the very beginnings of that—­it’s been one triumphant relaxation.”

“Relaxation, perhaps.  But are we any more free?”

“Well?”

“I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same.  A woman isn’t much freer—­in reality.”

Mr. Ramage demurred.

“One runs about,” said Ann Veronica.

“Yes.”

“But it’s on condition one doesn’t do anything.”

“Do what?”