“Fighting goes with loads of its own baggage, John. ’ ‘Eh bien. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. I wonder, Ann Veronica, if, when our time comes, we shall be any wiser?” Ann Veronica watched a water-beetle fussing across the green depths. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. “If he is not here now I can make myself safe. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady.
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