She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. “I am so very, very sorry. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. Her aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed. Remember what the conjuror said. Meysey Hill—never your wife.
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