‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. ” Miss Stanley rose and regarded Ann Veronica fixedly. “Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. Pity you aren’t under my command. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation.
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