“About my sister,” she repeated slowly. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. It worked. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. Answering him was agonizing. Ann Veronica watched him from the dining-room window, and after some moments of maidenly hesitation rambled out into the garden in a reverse direction to Mr. Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. "All is prepared.
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