“Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. And I am grateful to you. Loans will just ruin my life because I need so many of them. They had a universe to talk about—two universes. He will not come. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. F. And then she would find work.
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