. . Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. “Let go!” said Ann Veronica, through her teeth, strenuously inflicting agony, and he cried out sharply and let go and receded a pace. But you had better know the truth to start with. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. We all did that in our youth, when first we came upon a fine story; else we were worthless metal indeed. ‘It is to say goodbye, you understand. So far she had the utmost difficulty in getting on to that vitally important matter. He told her something about music, the great world outside. As pretty as its owner.
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