’ ‘I spit on your plan,’ Melusine told him furiously. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory. I want to be myself. “No,” said Ann Veronica, “but I want to know. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. E. Wood laughed louder than ever. ‘It is nothing. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire? ‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible.
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