The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you. You should have a dog. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean.
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