He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room. He brightened as she took off her hood. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. But let that verse tell my secret.
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