It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. It’s no good flying out at that, Vee; I didn’t arrange it. It is at the lodge that we stay. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers.
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