“Are you aware, Ann Veronica, you nearly throttled that gentleman?” Then she reviled her own foolish way of putting it. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. Somehow. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced.
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