"What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. Montague Hill. He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit. “I’ve never been prone to them.
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