He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. It’s artificially chance. “Until you marry, Vee,” said Hetty. 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.
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