It was clear it must be to-morrow. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. It will hold aloof, a little undecided whether to pelt or not—” “That depends whether we carry ourselves as though we expected pelting,” said Ann Veronica. “It’s a flabby, loose-willed world we have to face. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.
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