Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once.
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