One could go to him and tell him one loved him. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child.
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