What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. ‘It is not your affair. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. Open it. You had better let me go again. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes.
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