“I wonder,” she said, “how much you care. Even WITH the Censorship of Plays there’s hardly a decent thing to which a man can take his wife and daughters, a creeping taint of suggestion everywhere. Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered.
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