” “Couldn’t I make a treaty?” Ann Veronica thought, and could not see any possible treaty that would leave it open for her to have quasi-surreptitious dinners with Ramage or go on walking round the London squares discussing Socialism with Miss Miniver toward the small hours. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. ‘This is not a place for a man. ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Gerald said calmly. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. There was still in his heart that fierce anger which demands physical expression; but he had to consider Ruth in all phases. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. He caught the smirk. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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