The Supper at Mr. ” “It is,” Annabel answered shortly. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. Clothes. It came to Ann Veronica that life was wonderful beyond measure. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks.
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