A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host. She looked about and discovered a door partially hidden by shadow. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding.
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