She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. For his own part he could not sufficiently admire the pluck of this lady, who, notwithstanding all that she had been through, had chosen to appear this evening rather than break her engagement. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. Be honest, and you will be happy. He stood still, almost breathless. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Do get your hat, and we will go to that corner café. I’ll come and see you again later on. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered.
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