Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. You know as well as I do that it was accident. Earles’ office, “was your last resource. Mrs. It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded.
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