You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation. But that possibility had been anticipated. Ann Veronica tried to seem absolutely unconcerned. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. There was something very wrong. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. It brought no coconut.
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