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. That for the men lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage. ‘If you shoot me,’ Gerald said quickly, throwing out a hand, ‘I shan’t be able to rescue you. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. “John, don’t!” she cried. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coat about on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; and laughter bubbled into his throat. “No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. Fire; she was full of it. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love.
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