Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. . She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. " "Jack, my love," cried Mrs. She shook her head. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. Ann Veronica passed from her aunt to her father, and put her arms about him and kissed his cheek. She had never seen her sitting on tables nor heard her discussing theology, and had failed to observe that the graceful figure was a natural one and not due to ably chosen stays.
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