“But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. Ann Veronica had one of her flashes of insight. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. It’s for you to say if I may sit on it. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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