“Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. “Why?” he asked, suavely. I want to ask you a plain question, and you must answer me faithfully. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. “He was in holy orders, and we were to have been married when he got a living. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back.
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