Ennison’s manner was certainly not one of a willing host. He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. “Hello!” said Ann Veronica, with arms akimbo and a careless, breathless manner. “Let’s go in here. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. A wedding procession turned the corner. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. I’ve had a headache all day. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Prepared as he was for a dreadful shock, and with his nerves strung to endure it, Jack absolutely recoiled before the appalling object that met his gaze. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things.
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