“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. “Dear friend,” she said, “do you not think that you are breaking an unspoken compact? I am very sorry. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash.
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