"Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. ” He stared at her, trying to guess at the mystery of her thoughts. But that instinct is severely dampened most of the time. ‘You have not the right. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock.
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