The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. All she needed to do was to have a body. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. You are NOT going to that ball!” Ann Veronica tried a less genial, more dignified note. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “I don’t believe there is one. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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