And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. .
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