“You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace. “I was sick of the make-believe. ’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. Lovers' confidences should be respected.
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