I know why. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. But this was important.
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