The servants had left the room. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. “Damn! Things are getting plainer. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. You intrigue me. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “Dear husband,” she murmured. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure.
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