A young man turned to pay the cabman. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “I suppose I should let go if I had. The future was not so black. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. She kept her eyes closed.
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