As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. It rather astonished him. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled.
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