“He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Besides, he might hear things. Suppose her father turned her out of doors! She did not care, she meant to go. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. It was one of the most educational disillusionments in Ann Veronica’s career. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend.
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