The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Like the flaws of an old marble. His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt. He went on. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. ” “Who says I don’t? Didn’t you used to live in Arkansas?” “Alabama. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. She was recalling the circumstances under which she had engaged herself to Manning, and trying to understand a curious development of the quality of this relationship.
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