Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. The well of tears in her eyes was dry.
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