Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. I wonder if a man can quite understand that passionate feeling? It is quite a passionate feeling. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. “Fine. All right! I’m off. I'm not hungry. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing.
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