Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. He is Jacques. And when, at length, it was struck, he wanted energy to pursue his advantages. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Her teachers and mistresses had done their best to stamp her mind with an ineradicable persuasion that it was tremendously important, and on no account to be thought about. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. Will you lend me the money for my ticket to London?” “With all the pleasure in the world,” he answered heartily. Goodbye. As she stared her eyes grew accustomed to the night; and she discovered five persons instead of four. The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars.
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