Once again the cavalcade was in motion, and winding its way by St. Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. The day comes when you shall regret how you have spoken to me. And then suddenly—a relief. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. He nodded. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. “You have even her name. Without you I should never have recovered either health or reason. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question.
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