Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent.
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