Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. ‘Your niece, ma’am. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. She leaned back in her chair. And who is the man you are not allowed to marry? Valade, perhaps?’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse.
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