Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. ” “How would you know I’m not ready? I’m older than you, remember? Sometimes you act so worldly, as if you’d seen it all. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length.
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