She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. He might have supposed the fellow would be eager to be rid of the tale, for that he might have longer to enjoy the amenities of the Triumphal Chariot where the meeting had been appointed.
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