Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. I was—I was a corespondent. Good-looking girl. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. The tears flowed faster. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking.
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