How did you like Tristan?” Ann Veronica paused the fraction of a second before her reply came. ‘Tell me what you know of Miss Charvill?’ he ordered severely. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. “I am. Do you think it’s nothing to me to have my daughter running about London looking for odd jobs and disgracing herself?” “Sha’n’t get odd jobs,” said Ann Veronica, wiping her eyes. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected.
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