Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. Think better of it. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. She trembled; but she did not know why.
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