She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. Suspicion was in his face. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. There were shadows under his eyes. Let—it—fall. For a time she furnished the flat. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most of the intervening time in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum, reading and thinking over a little book upon the feminist movement the tired woman had made her buy. Bring me clothing, I beg of you.
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