“No,” she answered, reluctantly. Nothing else matters. The boy she had loved was gone. The performance over, he relaxed and closed his eyes. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Hilary. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. “No reason. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. .
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