“Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. The door closed softly upon her. “I wonder which of us enjoys that most,” said Capes—“does he, or do we?” “He seems to get a zest—” “He does it and forgets it. She felt terrible lying to him. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place.
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