He was snoring stupidly. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace. The contact is disturbing; and we prefer going around the fact to facing it. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. In the upper hall he paused to listen. The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. Her neck was smeared with red and remorse flooded him. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. ‘That’s wicked, that is. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. And he did not lack courage.
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