Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. V. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna’s ear. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered.
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